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HANS BRINKER 
OR THE SILVER SKATES 

Copyright, 1929, by Albert Whitman & Co. 
Chicago, U. S. A. 


\C\ 


Albert Whitman’s Classics 
Fully Illustrated 


HEIDI 

PINOCCHIO 

HANS ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES 
KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER 
THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY 
A DOG OF FLANDERS 
AUNT MARTHA'S CORNER CUPBOARD 


©CIA 14840 

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. 


NOV -4 1929 




To 

My Father 
JAMES J. MAPES 
This Book 

Is Dedicated in Gratitude 
and Love 



This little work aims to combine the instructive features of a book 
of travels with the interest of a domestic tale. Throughout its pages 
the descriptions of Dutch localities, customs, and general characteristics 
have been given with scrupulous care. Many of its incidents are drawn 
from life, and the story of Raff Brinker is founded strictly upon fact. 

While acknowledging my obligation to many well-known writers on 
Dutch history, literature and art, I turn with especial gratitude to two 
kind Holland friends, who, with generous zeal, have taken many a back¬ 
ward glance at their country for my sake, seeing it as it looked twenty 
years ago, when the Brinker home stood unnoticed in sunlight and 
shadow. 

Should this simple narrative serve to give my young readers a just 
idea of Holland and its resources, or present true pictures of its inhabi¬ 
tants and their everyday life, or free them from certain current preju¬ 
dices concerning that noble and enterprising people, the leading desire 
in writing it will have been satisfied. 

Should it cause even one heart to feel a deeper trust in God’s good¬ 
ness and love, or aid any in weaving a life, wherein, through knots and 
entanglements, the golden thread shall never be tarnished or broken, 
the prayer with which it was begun and ended will have been answered. 

Mary Mapes Dodge. 


November 20, 1865. 

















It is sixty-three years since Mary Mapes Dodge wrote this introduc¬ 
tion, and the period of her story was some twenty years earlier, but 
Holland may still be characterized in the words she put into a letter to 
her young readers, when, in 1873, she visited the Netherlands. 

“Its cities have grown, and some of its peculiarities have been 
brushed away by contact with other nations, but it is Holland still—and 
always will be—full of oddity, courage, and industry—the pluckiest 
little country on earth.” 

For of the more easily accessible lands of the globe, Holland prob¬ 
ably shows less change than any other. Women still wear long full 
skirts, men smoke big pipes, on a winter day the Zuyder Zee is gay 
with skaters, and the eternal fight with the sea goes on as it did over 
eighty years ago when Raff Brinker was injured beside the dykes. 

The author of this story, Mary Mapes Dodge, was bom in 1838. 
Hers was a fortunate girlhood. To begin with, her father was a 
scientist and a writer, her mother a person of great charm, and to their 


















































Preface 


hospitable home came the most interesting people of their time. Then 
Mary had a great-grandmother—a treasure every child does not possess. 
And this particular great-grandmother could bridge the years to Wash¬ 
ington’s time upon her memory, for she had attended balls graced by 
the presence of the first President, she had danced with the young 
Marquis de Lafayette. She could tell wonderful stories of those 
glamorous days, and still treasured dancing slippers and other bits of 
finery to give life and color to the tales. 

Besides that, Mary had three sisters, the dearest of playmates. 
The four girls never went to school, but had private teachers and the 
benefits of browsing in their father’s wonderful library. They spoke 
and read French and German, they knew Greek and Latin, and they 
used to make up plays about their favorite book heroes and act them in 
the library. Mary liked history best, though she showed a real talent 
for music as well as for painting and sculpture. 

One day Mr. Mapes brought home a new set of books, Motley’s 
“Rise of the Dutch Republic.” Mary fairly devoured these books, and 
from them derived such a deep admiration for the brave little country 
that she wanted to rush over there forthwith and live among the 
Hollanders. 

The circumstances of the moment did not permit that, and the little 
girl Mary grew up and married and became the mother of two little 
boys before she saw Holland. Her life was happy, filled to the brim. 
Then quite suddenly her young husband died, and she had to meet the 
problem of bringing up her boys alone. 

Mrs. Dodge had been a delightfully successful mother. Each night 
she told her children stories that held them breathless. Now she began 
to write out the stories they liked the best, and the stories proved their 
worth by immediate sales to editors. One day there flashed into her 
mind her youthful joy in the history by Motley. That night she began 
a story about a Dutch boy named Hans Brinker. Its appeal to her boys 
was instantaneous. Each night she told them a chapter, and the next 
day wrote it out. When at last the story was finished it appeared 
serially in a paper for young people. Then, in 1866, it was brought 
out in book form, was soon translated into French, German, Russian, 
Italian and Dutch, and with the possible exception of Louisa M. Alcott’s 
“Little Women” has been the most enduring and most loved book for 
young people ever written in America. 

The book was greatly liked in Holland, and accepted as a faithful 
picture of Dutch life. Several years after it was written, Mrs. Dodge’s 
own son, on a visit to the Netherlands, asked a Dutch bookseller for a 
good story of Holland, and to his surprise and delight was handed a 
copy of “Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates.” 



Preface 


In 1873, when St. Nicholas magazine was started, Mary Mapes 
Dodge was asked to become its first editor. She chose its name, and 
for more than thirty years, until her death in 1905, she guided its 
destinies. 

In the last chapter of the story, where the futures of the various 
characters are summed up in brief, we are told that Lambert van 
Mounen married Ben Dobbs’ sister, and crossed the sea to make his 
home in New York City, which was itself settled by the Dutch, and 
used to be called New Amsterdam. 

Here and there in the fast moving, swiftly changing city of New 
York, are traces of those early days under the rule of the thrifty Hol¬ 
landers, the colorful days of old Peter Stuyvesant. Not far from my 
studio, on the edge of Van Cortlandt Park, set in peaceful lawns across 
which once swept the foraging parties of British and Continental troops, 
stands a fine old stone mansion, filled with treasures brought from the 
Netherlands. This building, the Van Cortlandt House, where George 
Washington was a guest in 1781 and 1783, is now a public museum, main¬ 
tained and kept open to the public by The National Society of Colonial 
Dames in The State of New York. 

This delightful house with its real Dutch kitchen into whose capa¬ 
cious fireplace could be stowed an entire modern kitchenette, has been 
a source of inspiration to me in making these illustrations. The tiled 
fireplace, the wall bed, the warming pan, the powder horn and the hang¬ 
ing lamp in Hans Brinker’s home, the baseboard tiles, the quaint ladder- 
back chairs, and the funny old clock called Wag-o-the-Wall in the picture 
of the little girl mending Jacob Poot’s glove, the mahogany chest and the 
ship models, all are bits gleaned on visits to the Van Cortlandt House, 
and the Dutch door which appears in the book, is the front door of the 
mansion. 

To the Relic and Loan Committee of the Van Cortlandt House, to 
the National Society of Colonial Dames in The State of New York, and to 
Mr. Howard Page, custodian of the Van Cortlandt House, I wish to 
express my deep and sincere gratitude for the courtesy and consideration 
shown me, and the help rendered in making possible these sketches of 
real Dutch household utensils from the land of Hans Brinker himself. 

It has been a pleasure and a privilege to illustrate this stoiy that 
I knew and loved in my childhood, and which my small son is just 
beginning to know and already loves, and I feel quite sure that if I 
am so fortunate as to have grandchildren some day, to them its charm 
will be as fresh and new as on the day when Mary Mapes Dodge first 
told it to her little boys. 

Violet Moore Higgins. 


New York City. 




PAGE 


I Hans and Gretel. 13 

II Holland . 18 

III The Silver Skates. 27 

IV Hans and Gretel Find a Friend. 33 

V Shadows in the Home. 40 

VI Sunbeams . 47 

VII Hans Has His Way. 53 

VIII Introducing Jacob Poot and His Cousin. 57 

IX The Festival of St. Nicholas. 63 

X What the Boys Saw and Did in Amsterdam. 72 

XI Big Manias and Little Oddities. 82 

XII On the Way to Haarlem. 90 

XIII A Catastrophe. 95 

XIV Hans . 99 

XV Homes . 105 

XVI Haarlem.—The Boys Hear Voices. 112 

XVII The Man With Four Head . 118 

XVIII Friends in Need. 123 

XIX On the Canal. 130 

XX Jacob Poot Changes the Plan. 137 

XXI Mynheer Kleef and His Bill of Fare. 144 

XXII The Red Lion Becomes Dangerous. 148 

XXIII Before the Court. 159 

XXIV The Beleaguered Cities. 163 
















































PAGE 

XXV Leyden . 169 

XXVI The Palace and the Wood. 175 

XXVII The Merchant Prince and the Sister-Princess. 178 

XXVIII Through The Hague. 191 

XXIX A Day of Rest. 200 

XXX Homeward Bound. 203 

XXXI Boys and Girls. 207 

XXXII The Crisis. 213 

XXXIII Gretel and Hilda. 220 

XXXIV The Awakening.,. 228 

XXXV Bones and Tongues... 232 

XXXVI A New Alarm. 236 

XXXVII The Father ’s Return. 241 

XXXVIII The Thousand Guilders. 246 

XXXIX Glimpses . 252 

XL Looking for Work. 256 

XLI The Fairy Godmother. 261 

XLII The Mysterious Watch. 267 

XLIII A Discovery...-. 275 

XLIV The Race.-. 283 

XLV Joy in the Cottage. 300 

XLVI Mysterious Disappearance of Thomas Higgs. 308 

XLVII Broad Sunshine. 311 

XLVIII Conclusion. 317 
























































Is 




*****mtmm 




Ii ) ii ; ii ; » ; i ) >»|i|i ; ; i iiiiiii i| ii<> i ii »^ ii 


mem 


THE OLD DUTCH DOOR 















































































On a bright December morning long ago, two thinly clad 
children were kneeling upon the bank of a frozen canal 
in Holland. 

The sun had not yet appeared, but the gray sky was 
parted near the horizon, and its edges shone crimson with 
the coming day. Most of the good Hollanders were enjoy¬ 
ing a placid morning nap; even Mynheer von Stoppelnoze, 
that worthy old Dutchman, was still slumbering “in 
beautiful repose.” 

Now and then some peasant woman, poising a well filled 
basket upon her head, came skimming over the glassy 
surface of the canal; or a lusty boy, skating to his day’s 
work in the town, cast a good-natured grimace toward the 
shivering pair as he flew along. 

13 
































14 


Hans Brinker 


Meanwhile, with many a vigorous puff and pull, the 
brother and sister, for such they were, seemed to be fast¬ 
ening something upon their feet—not skates, certainly, but 
clumsy pieces of wood narrowed and smoothed at their 
lower edge, and pierced with holes, through which were 
threaded strings of rawhide. 

These queer looking affairs had been made by the boy 
Hans. His mother was a poor peasant-woman, too poor 
to even think of such a thing as buying skates for her little 
ones. Rough as these were, they had afforded the children 
many a happy hour upon the ice; and now as with cold, 
red fingers our young Hollanders tugged at the strings— 
their solemn faces bending closely over their knees—no 
vision of impossible iron runners came to dull the satis¬ 
faction glowing within. 

In a moment the boy arose, and with a pompous swing 
of the arms, and a careless ‘ 4 Come on, Gretel,” glided 
easily across the canal. 

“Ah, Hans,” called his sister plaintively, “this foot is 
not well yet. The strings hurt me on last Market day; 
and now I cannot bear them tied in the same place.” 

“Tie them higher up, then,” answered Hans, as with¬ 
out looking at her he performed a wonderful cat’s-cradle 
step on the ice. 

“How can I? The string is too short.” 

Giving vent to a good-natured Dutch whistle, the 
English of which was that girls were troublesome creatures, 
he steered toward her. 

“You are foolish to wear such shoes, Gretel, when you 
have a stout leather pair. Your klompen 1 would be better 
than these.” 

“Why, Hans! Do you forget? The father threw my 
beautiful new shoes in the fire. Before I knew what he 
had done they were all curled up in the midst of the burning 

(1) Wooden Shoes. 



Hans and Gretel 


15 


peat. I can skate with these, but not with my wooden 
ones.—Be careful now—” 

Hans had taken a string from his pocket. Humming 
a tune as he knelt beside her, he proceeded to fasten 
Gretel’s skate with all the force of his strong young arm. 

44 Oh! oh!” she cried, in real pain. 

With an impatient jerk Hans unwound the string. He 
would have cast it upon the ground in true big-brother 
style, had he not just then spied a tear trickling down 
his sister’s cheek. 

4 ‘I’ll fix it—never fear,” he said, with sudden tender¬ 
ness, 44 but we must be quick; the mother will need us 
soon.” 

Then he glanced inquiringly about him, first at the 
ground, next at some bare willow branches above his head, 
and finally at the sky now gorgeous with streaks of blue, 
crimson and gold. 

Finding nothing in any of these localities to meet his 
need, his eye suddenly brightened as, with the air of a 
fellow who knew what he was about, he took off his cap 
and removing the tattered lining, adjusted it in a smooth 
pad over the top of Gretel’s worn-out shoe. 

44 Now,” he cried triumphantly, at the same time arrang¬ 
ing the strings as briskly as his benumbed fingers would 
allow, 44 can you bear some pulling?” 

Gretel drew up her lips as if to say 44 Hurt away,” but 
made no further response. 

In another moment they were laughing together, as 
hand in hand they flew along the canal, never thinking 
whether the ice would bear or not, for in Holland, ice is 
generally an all-winter affair. It settles itself upon the 
water in a determined kind of way, and so far from grow¬ 
ing thin and uncertain every time the sun is a little severe 
upon it, it gathers its forces day by day and flashes defiance 
to every beam. 



16 


Hans Brinker 


Presently, squeak! squeak! sound something beneath 
Hans’ feet. Next his strokes grew shorter, ending oft- 
times with a jerk, and finally, he lay sprawling upon the 
ice, kicking against the air with many a fantastic flourish. 

“Ha! Ha!” laughed Gretel, “that was a fine tumble!” 
But a tender heart was beating under her coarse blue 
jacket and, even as she laughed, she came, with a graceful 
sweep, close to her prostrate brother. 

“Are you hurt, Hans? Oh, you are laughing! Catch 
me now,”—and she darted away shivering no longer, but 
with cheeks all aglow, and eyes sparkling with fun. 

Hans sprang to his feet and started in brisk pursuit, 
but it was no easy thing to catch Gretel. Before she had 
traveled very far, her skates, too, began to squeak. 

Believing that discretion was the better part of valor 
she turned suddenly and skated into her pursuer’s arms. 

“Ha! ha! I’ve caught you!” cried Hans. 

“Ha! ha! I caught yon," she retorted, struggling to 
free herself. 

Just then a clear, quick voice was heard calling “Hans! 
Gretel!” 

“It’s the mother,” said Hans, looking solemn in an 
instant. 

By this time the canal was gilded with sunlight. The 
pure morning air was very delightful, and skaters were 
gradually increasing in numbers. It was hard to obey 
the summons. But Gretel and Hans were good children; 
without a thought of yielding to the temptation to linger, 
they pulled off their skates, leaving half the knots still tied. 
Hans, with his great square shoulders, and bushy yellow 
hair, towered high above his blue-eyed little sister as they 
trudged homeward. He was fifteen years old and Gretel 
was only twelve. He was a solid, hearty-looking boy, with 
honest eyes and a brow that seemed to bear a sign, 



Hans and Gretel 


17 


66 goodness within,” just as the little Dutch zomerhuis 1 wears 
a motto over its portal. Gretel was lithe and quick; her eyes 
had a dancing light in them, and while you looked at her 
cheek the color paled and deepened just as it does upon a 
bed of pink and white blossoms when the wind is blowing. 

As soon as the children turned from the canal they could 
see their parents’ cottage. Their mother’s tall form, 
arrayed in jacket and petticoat and close-fitting cap, stood, 
like a picture, in the crooked frame of the doorway. Had 
the cottage been a mile away, it would still have seemed 
near. In that flat country every object stands out plainly 
in the distance; the chickens show as distinctly as the wind¬ 
mills. Indeed, were it not for the dykes and the high banks 
of the canals, one could stand almost anywhere in middle 
Holland without seeing a mound or a ridge between the eye 
and the “jumping-off place.” 

None had better cause to know the nature of these same 
dykes than Dame Brinker and the panting youngsters now 
running at her call. But before stating why, let me ask 
you to take a rocking-chair trip with me to that far country 
where you may see, perhaps for the first time, some curious 
things that Hans and Gretel saw every day. 


(1) Summer-house. 





Holland is one of the queerest countries under the sun. 
It should be called Odd-land or Contrary-land, for in 
nearly everything it is different from other parts of the 
world. In the first place, a large portion of the country is 
lower than the level of the sea. Great dykes or bulwarks 
have been erected at a heavy cost of money and labor, to 
keep the ocean where it belongs. On certain parts of the 
coast it sometimes leans with all its weight against the land, 
and it is as much as the poor country can do to stand the 
pressure. Sometimes the dykes give way, or spring a leak, 
and the most disastrous results ensue. They are high and 
wide, and the tops of some of them are covered with build¬ 
ings and trees. They have even fine public roads upon 
them, from which horses may look down upon wayside cot¬ 
tages. Often the keels of floating ships are higher than the 
roofs of the dwellings. The stork clattering to her young 
on the house-peak may feel that her nest is lifted far out of 
danger, but the croaking frog in neighboring bulrushes is 
nearer the stars than she. Water-bugs dart backward and 
forward above the heads of the chimney swallows; and 

18 














Holland 


19 


willow trees seem drooping with shame, because they can¬ 
not reach as high as the reeds near by. 

Ditches, canals, ponds, rivers and lakes are everywhere 
to be seen. High, but not dry, they shine in the sunlight, 
catching nearly all the bustle and the business, quite scorn¬ 
ing the tame fields stretching damply beside them. One is 
tempted to ask, “Which is Holland—the shores or the 
water?” The very verdure that should be confined to the 
land has made a mistake and settled upon the fish-ponds. 
In fact the entire country is a kind of saturated sponge or, 
as the English poet, Butler, called it, 

11 A land that rides at anchor, and is moor’d, 

In which they do not live, but go aboard.” 

Persons are born, live and die, and even have their gar¬ 
dens on canal-boats. Farmhouses, with roofs like great 
slouched hats pulled over their eyes, stand on wooden legs 
with a tucked-up sort of air, as if to say, “We intend to 
keep dry if we can.” Even the horses wear a wide stool on 
each hoof to lift them out of the mire. In short, the land¬ 
scape everywhere suggests a paradise for ducks. It is a 
glorious country in summer for barefooted girls and boys. 
Such wadings! such mimic ship sailing! Such rowing, fish¬ 
ing and swimming! Only think of a chain of puddles where 
one can launch chip boats all day long, and never make a 
return trip! But enough. A full recital would set all 
young America rushing in a body toward the Zuider Zee. 

Dutch cities seem at first sight to be a bewildering jungle 
of houses, bridges, churches and ships, sprouting into 
masts, steeples and trees. In some cities vessels are hitched 
like horses to their owners’ door-posts and receive their 
freight from the upper windows. Mothers scream to 
Lodewyk and Kassy not to swing on the garden gate for 
fear they may be drowned! Water-roads are more fre¬ 
quent there than common-roads and railways; water-fences 



20 


Hans Brinker 


in the form of lazy green ditches, enclose pleasure-ground, 
polder and garden. 

Sometimes fine green hedges are seen; but wooden fences 
such as we have in America are rarely met with in Holland. 
As for stone fences, a Dutchman would lift his hands with 
astonishment at the very idea. There is no stone there, 
excepting those great masses of rock, that have been 
brought from other lands to strengthen and protect the 
coast. All the small stones or pebbles, if there ever were 
any, seem to be imprisoned in pavements or quite melted 
away. Boys with strong, quick arms may grow from pina¬ 
fores to full beards without ever finding one to start the 
water-rings or set the rabbits flying. The water-roads are 
nothing less than canals intersecting the country in every 
direction. These are of all sizes, from the great North 
Holland Ship Canal, which is the wonder of the world, to 
those which a boy can leap. Water-omnibuses, called trek- 
schuiten, 1 constantly ply up and down these roads for 
the conveyance of passengers; and water drays, called 
pakschuyten 1 , are used for carrying fuel, and merchandise. 
Instead of green country lanes, green canals stretch from 
field to barn and from barn to garden; and the farms or 
polders, as they are termed, are merely great lakes pumped 
dry. Some of the busiest streets are water, while many of 
the country roads are paved with brick. The city boats 
with their rounded sterns, gilded prows and gaily painted 
sides, are unlike any others under the sun; and a Dutch 
wagon with its funny little crooked pole, is a perfect 
mystery of mysteries. 

(1) Canal-boats. Some of the first named are over thirty feet long. They look 
like green houses lodged on barges, and are drawn by horses walking along the 
bank of the canal. The trekschuiten are divided into two compartments, first and 
second class, and when not too crowded the passengers make themselves quite at 
home in them; the men smoke, the women knit or sew, while children play upon 
the small outer deck. Many of the canal-boats have white, yellow, or chocolate- 
colored sails. This last color is caused by a preparation of tan which is put on to 
preserve them. 




Holland 


21 


“One thing is clear,” cries Master Brightside, “the 
inhabitants need never be thirsty.” But no, Odd-land is 
true to itself still. Notwithstanding the sea pushing to get 
in, and the lakes struggling to get out, and the overflowing 
canals, rivers and ditches, in many districts there is no 
water fit to swallow; our poor Hollanders must go dry, or 
drink wine and beer, or send far into the inland to Utrecht, 
and other favored localities, for that precious fluid older 
than Adam yet young as the morning dew. Sometimes, 
indeed, the inhabitants can swallow a shower when they are 
provided with any means of catching it; but generally they 
are like the Albatross-haunted sailors in Coleridge’s famous 
poem of “The Ancient Mariner”—they see 
“ Water, water everywhere, 

Nor any drop to drink!” 

Great flapping windmills all over the country make it look 
as if flocks of huge sea-birds were just settling upon it. 
Everywhere one sees the funniest trees, bobbed into fan¬ 
tastical shapes, with their trunks painted a dazzling white, 
yellow or red. Horses are often yoked three abreast. Men, 
women and children go clattering about in wooden shoes 
with loose heels; peasant girls who cannot get beaux for 
love, hire them for money to escort them to the Kermis ; 1 
and husbands and wives lovingly harness themselves side 
by side on the bank of the canal and drag their pakschuyts 
to market. 

Another peculiar feature of Holland is the dune or sand¬ 
hill. These are numerous along certain portions of the 
coast. Before they were sown with coarse reed-grass and 
other plants, to hold them down, they used to send great 
storms of sand over the inland. So, to add to the oddities, 
farmers sometimes dig down under the surface to find their 
soil, and on windy days dry showers (of sand) often fall 
upon fields that have grown wet under a week of sunshine. 


(1) Fair. 




22 


Hans Brinker 


In short, almost the only familiar thing we Yankees can 
meet with in Holland is a harvest-song which is quite popu¬ 
lar there, though no linguist could translate it. Even then 
we must shut our eyes and listen only to the tune which I 
leave you to guess. 

“Yanker didee dudel down 
Didee dudel lawnter; 

Yankee viver, voover, vown, 

Botermelk und Tawnter!” 

On the other hand, many of the oddities of Holland serve 
only to prove the thrift and perseverance of the people. 
There is not a richer, or more carefully tilled garden-spot 
in the whole world than this leaky, springy little country. 
There is not a braver, more heroic race than its quiet, pas¬ 
sive-looking inhabitants. Few nations have equaled it in 
important discoveries and inventions; none has excelled it 
in commerce, navigation, learning and science,—or set as 
noble examples in the promotion of education, and public 
charities; and none in proportion to its extent has expended 
more money and labor upon public works. 

Holland has its shining annals of noble and illustrious 
men and women; its grand, historic records of patience, 
resistance and victory; its religious freedom, its enlight¬ 
ened enterprise, its art, its music and its literature. It has 
truly been called, “the battle-field of Europe,’’ as truly may 
we consider it the asylum of the world, for the oppressed 
of every nation have there found shelter and encourage¬ 
ment. If we Americans, who after all, are homeopathic 
preparations of Holland stock, can laugh at the Dutch, and 
call them human beavers, and hint that their country may 
float off any day at high tide, we can also feel proud, and 
say they have proved themselves heroes, and that their 
country will not float off while there is a Dutchman left to 
grapple it. 

There are said to be at least ninety-nine hundred large 



Holland 


23 


windmills in Holland, with sails ranging from eighty to 
one hundred and twenty feet long. They are employed in 
sawing timber, beating hemp, grinding, and many other 
kinds of work; but their principal use is for pumping 
water from the lowlands into the canals, and for guarding 
against the inland freshets that so often deluge the country. 
Their yearly cost is said to be nearly ten millions of dollars. 
The large ones are of great power. Their huge, circular 
tower, rising sometimes from the midst of factory build¬ 
ings, is surmounted with a smaller one tapering into a 
cap-like roof. This upper tower is encircled at its base with 
a balcony, high above which juts the axis turned by its four 
prodigious, ladder-backed sails. 

Many of the windmills are primitive affairs, seeming 
sadly in need of Yankee “improvements”; but some of the 
new ones are admirable. They are so constructed that, by 
some ingenious contrivance, they present their fans, or 
wings, to the wind in precisely the right direction to work 
with the requisite power. In other words, the miller may 
take a nap and feel quite sure that his mill will study the 
wind, and make the most of it, until he wakens. Should 
there be but a slight current of air, every sail will spread 
itself to catch the faintest breath; but if a heavy “blow” 
should come, they will shrink at its touch, like great mimosa 
leaves, and only give it half a chance to move them. 

One of the old prisons of Amsterdam, called the Rasp- 
house, because the thieves and vagrants who were confined 
there were employed in rasping log-wood, had a cell for 
the punishment of lazy prisoners. In one corner of this 
cell was a pump and, in another, an opening through which 
a steady stream of water was admitted. The prisoner could 
take his choice, either to stand still and be drowned, or to 
work for dear life at the pump and keep the flood down 
until his jailer chose to relieve him. Now it seems to me 
that, throughout Holland, Nature has introduced this little 



24 


Hans Brinker 


diversion on a grand scale. The Dutch have always been 
forced to pump for their very existence and probably must 
continue to do so to the end of time. 

Every year millions of dollars are spent in repairing 
dykes, and regulating water levels. If these important 
duties were neglected the country would be uninhabitable. 
Already dreadful consequences, as I have said, have fol¬ 
lowed the bursting of these dykes. Hundreds of villages 
and towns have from time to time been buried beneath the 
rush of waters, and nearly a million of persons have been 
destroyed. One of the most fearful inundations ever known 
occurred in the autumn of the year 1570. Twenty-eight ter¬ 
rible floods had before that time overwhelmed portions of 
Holland, but this was the most terrible of all. The unhappy 
country had long been suffering under Spanish tyranny; 
now, it seemed, the crowning point was given to its troubles. 
When we read Motley’s history of the “Rise of the Dutch 
Republic” we learn to revere the brave people who have 
endured, suffered and dared so much. 

Mr. Motley in his thrilling account of the great inunda¬ 
tion tells us how a long continued and violent gale had been 
sweeping the Atlantic waters into the North Sea, piling 
them against the coasts of the Dutch provinces; how the 
dykes, tasked beyond their strength, burst in all directions; 
how even the Hand-bos, a bulwark formed of oaken piles, 
braced with iron, moored with heavy anchors and secured 
by gravel and granite, was snapped to pieces like pack¬ 
thread ; how fishing boats and bulky vessels floating up into 
the country became entangled among the trees, or beat in 
the roofs and walls of dwellings, and how at last all Fries¬ 
land was converted into an angry sea. “Multitudes of men, 
women, children, of horses, oxen, sheep, and every domestic 
animal, were struggling in the waves in every direction. 
Every boat and every article which could serve as a boat, 
were eagerly seized upon. Every house was inundated, 



Holland 


25 


even the graveyards gave up their dead. The living infant 
in his cradle, and the long-buried corpse in his coffin, floated 
side by side. The ancient flood seemed about to be renewed. 
Everywhere, upon the tops of trees, upon the steeples of 
churches, human beings were clustered, praying to God for 
mercy, and to their fellowmen for assistance. As the storm 
at last was subsiding, boats began to ply in every direction, 
saving those who were struggling in the water, picking 
fugitives from roofs and tree tops, and collecting the bodies 
of those already drowned. ” No less than one hundred thou¬ 
sand human beings had perished in a few hours. Thousands 
upon thousands of dumb creatures lay dead upon the 
waters; and the damage done to property of every descrip¬ 
tion was beyond calculation. 

Robles, the Spanish Governor, was foremost in noble 
efforts to save life and lessen the horrors of the catastrophe. 
He had formerly been hated by the Dutch because of his 
Spanish or Portuguese blood, but by his goodness and activ¬ 
ity in their hour of disaster, he won all hearts to gratitude. 
He soon introduced an improved method of constructing 
the dykes, and passed a law that they should in future be 
kept up by the owners of the soil. There were fewer heavy 
floods from this time, though within less than three hun¬ 
dred years six fearful inundations swept over the land. 

In the spring there is always great danger of inland 
freshets, especially in times of thaw, because the rivers, 
choked with blocks of ice, overflow before they can dis¬ 
charge their rapidly rising waters into the ocean. Added to 
this, the sea chafing and pressing against the dykes, it is no 
wonder that Holland is often in a state of alarm. The 
greatest care is taken to prevent accidents. Engineers and 
workmen are stationed all along in threatened places and a 
close watch is kept up night and day. When a general 
signal of danger is given, the inhabitants all rush to the 
rescue, eager to combine against their common foe. As, 



26 


Hans Brinker 


everywhere else, straw is supposed to be of all things the 
most helpless in the water, of course in Holland it must be 
rendered the mainstay against a rushing tide. Huge straw 
mats are pressed against the embankments, fortified with 
clay and heavy stone, and once adjusted, the ocean dashes 
against them in vain. 

Raff Brinker, the father of Gretel and Hans, had for 
years been employed upon the dykes. It was at the time of 
a threatened inundation, when in the midst of a terrible 
storm, in darkness and sleet, the men were laboring at a 
weak spot near the Veermyk sluice, that he fell from the 
scaffolding, and was taken home insensible. From that 
hour he never worked again; though he lived on, mind and 
memory were gone. 

Gretel could not remember him otherwise than as the 
strange, silent man, whose eyes followed her vacantly 
whichever way she turned; but Hans had recollections of a 
hearty, cheerful-voiced father w T ho was never tired of bear¬ 
ing him upon his shoulder, and whose careless song still 
seemed echoing near when he lay awake at night and 
listened. 




THE SILVER SKATES 

Dame Brinker earned a scanty support for her family 
by raising vegetables, spinning and knitting. Once she had 
worked on board the barges plying up and down the canal, 
and had occasionally been harnessed with other women to 
the towing rope of a pakschuyt plying between Broek and 
Amsterdam. But when Hans had grown strong and large, 
he had insisted upon doing all such drudgery in her place. 
Besides, her husband had become so very helpless of late, 
that he required her constant care. Although not having 
as much intelligencer as a little child, he was yet strong of 
arm and very hearty, and Dame Brinker had sometimes 
great trouble in controlling him. 

“Ah! children, he was so good and steady,” she would 
sometimes say, “and as wise as a lawyer. Even the Burgo¬ 
master would stop to ask him a question, and now alack! he 
doesn’t know his wife and little ones. You remember the 


27 









28 


Hans Brinker 


father, Hans, when he was himself—a great brave man— 
don’t you?” 

“Yes, indeed, mother, he knew everything, and could do 
anything under the sun—and how he would sing! why, you 
used to laugh and say it was enough to set the windmills 
dancing.” 

“So I did. Bless me! how the boy remembers! Gretel, 
child, take that knitting needle from your father, quick; 
he’ll get it in his eyes maybe; and put the shoe on him. His 
poor feet are like ice half the time, but I can’t keep ’em cov¬ 
ered, all I can do”-and then half wailing, half hum¬ 

ming, Dame Brinker would sit down, and fill the low cot¬ 
tage with the whirr of her spinning wheel. 

Nearly all the outdoor work, as well as the household 
labor, was performed by Hans and Gretel. At certain sea¬ 
sons of the year the children went out day after day to 
gather peat, which they would stow away in square, brick¬ 
like pieces, for fuel. At other times, when home-work per¬ 
mitted, Hans rode the towing-horses on the canals, earning 
a few stivers 1 a day; and Gretel tended geese for the neigh¬ 
boring farmers. 

Hans was clever at carving in wood, and both he and 
Gretel were good gardeners. Gretel could sing and sew and 
run on great, high, home-made stilts better than any girl 
for miles around. She could learn a ballad in five minutes, 
and find, in its season, any weed or flower you could name; 
but she dreaded books, and often the very sight of the figur- 
ing-board in the old schoolhouse would set her eyes swim¬ 
ming. Hans, on the contrary, was slow and steady. The 
harder the task, whether in study or daily labor, the better 
he liked it. Boys who sneered at him out of school, on 
account of his patched clothes and scant leather breeches, 
were forced to yield him the post of honor in nearly every 


(1) A stiver is worth about two cents of our money. 




The Silver Skates 


29 


class. It was not long before he was the only youngster 
in the school who had not stood at least once in the corner 
of horrors, where hung a dreaded whip, and over it this 
motto: 

“Leer, yeer! jou luigaart, of dit endje touw zal je le ren !” 1 

It was only in winter that Gretel and Hans could be 
spared to attend school; and for the past month they had 
been kept at home because their mother needed their serv¬ 
ices. Raff Brinker required constant attention, and there 
was black bread to be made, and the house to be kept clean, 
and stockings and other things to be knitted and sold in the 
market-place. 

While they were busily assisting their mother on this cold 
December morning, a merry troop of girls and boys came 
skimming down the canal. There were fine skaters among 
them, and as the bright medley of costumes flitted by, it 
looked from a distance as though the ice had suddenly 
thawed, and some gay tulip-bed were floating along on the 
current. 

There was the rich burgomaster’s daughter Hilda van 
Gleck, with her costly furs and loose-fitting velvet sack; 
and, near by, a pretty peasant girl, Annie Bouman, jaunt¬ 
ily attired in a coarse scarlet jacket and a blue skirt just 
short enough to display the gray homespun hose to advan¬ 
tage. Then there was the proud Rychie Korbes, whose 
father, Mynheer van Korbes, was one of the leading men of 
Amsterdam; and, flocking closely around her, Carl Schum- 
mel, Peter and Ludwig 2 van Holp, Jacob Poot, and a very 
small boy rejoicing in the tremendous name of Voosten- 
walbert Schimmelpenninck. There were nearly twenty 
other boys and girls in the party, and one and all seemed 
full of excitement and frolic. 

(1) (Learn! learn! you idler, or this rope’s end shall teach you.) 

(2) Ludwig, Gretel, and Carl were named after German friends. The Dutch 
form would be Lodewyk, Grietje and Karel. 




30 


Hans Brinker 


Up and down the canal, within the space of a half mile 
they skated, exerting their racing powers to the utmost. 
Often the swiftest among them was seen to dodge from 
under the very nose of some pompous law-giver or doctor, 
who with folded arms was skating leisurely toward the 
town; or a chain of girls would suddenly break at the 
approach of a fat old burgomaster who, with gold-headed 
cane poised in air, was puffing his way to Amsterdam. 
Equipped in skates wonderful to behold, from their superb 
strappings, and dazzling runners curving over the instep 
and topped with gilt balls, he would open his fat eyes a little 
if one of the maidens chanced to drop him a courtesy, but 
would not dare to bow in return for fear of losing his 
balance. 

Not only pleasure-seekers and stately men of note were 
upon the canal. There were work-people, with weary eyes, 
hastening to their shops and factories; market-women with 
loads upon their heads; peddlers bending with their packs; 
barge-men with shaggy hair and bleared faces, jostling 
roughly on their way; kind-eyed clergymen speeding per¬ 
haps to the bedsides of the dying; and, after a while, groups 
of children, with satchels slung over their shoulders, whiz¬ 
zing past, toward the distant school. One and all wore 
skates excepting, indeed, a muffled-up farmer whose queer 
cart bumped along on the margin of the canal. 

Before long our merry boys and girls were almost lost in 
the confusion of bright colors, the ceaseless motion, and the 
gleaming of skates flashing back the sunlight. We might 
have known no more of them had not the whole party sud¬ 
denly come to a standstill and, grouping themselves out of 
the way of the passers-by, all talked at once to a pretty 
little maiden, whom they had drawn from the tide of people 
flowing toward the town. 

“O Katrinka!” they cried, in a breath, “have you heard 
of it? The race—we want you to join!” 



The Silver Skates 


31 


“What race?” asked Katrinka, laughing—“Don’t all 
talk at once, please, I can’t understand.” 

Every one panted and looked at Rychie Korbes, who was 
their acknowledged spokeswoman. 

“Why,” said Rychie, “we are to have a grand skating 
match on the twentieth, on Meurouw 1 van Grleck’s birthday. 
It’s all Hilda’s work. They are going to give a splendid 
prize to the best skater.” 

“Yes,” chimed in half a dozen voices, “a beautiful pair 
of silver skates—perfectly magnificent! with, oh! such 
straps and silver bells and buckles!” 

“Who said they had bells?” put in the small voice of the 
boy with the big name. 

“I say so, Master Voost,” replied Rychie. 

“So they have,”—“No, I’m sure they haven’t”— “Oh, 
how can you say so?”—“It’s an arrow”—“And Mynheer 
van Korbes told my mother they had bells”—came from 
sundry of the excited group; but Mynheer Yoostenwalbert 
Schimmelpenninck essayed to settle the matter with a 
decisive— 

“Well, you don’t any of you know a single thing about it; 
they haven’t a sign of a bell on them, they-” 

“Oh! oh!” and the chorus of conflicting opinion broke 
forth again. 

“The girls’ pair are to have bells,” interposed Hilda, 
quietly, “but there is to be another pair for the boys with 
an arrow engraved upon the sides.” 

“There! I told you so!” cried nearly all the youngsters 
in a breath. 

Katrinka looked at them with bewildered eyes. 

“Who is to try?” she asked. 

“All of us,” answered Rychie. “It will be such fun! 
And you must, too, Katrinka. But it’s school time now, 


(1) Mrs. or Madame (pronounced Meffrow). 




32 


Hans Brinker 


we will talk it all over at noon. Oh! you will join of 
course.” 

Katrinka, without replying, made a graceful pirouette, 
and laughing out a coquettish—“Don’t you hear the last 
bell? Catch me!”—darted off toward the schoolhouse, 
standing half a mile away, on the canal. 

All started, pell-mell, at this challenge, but they tried in 
vain to catch the bright-eyed, laughing creature who, with 
golden hair streaming in the sunlight, cast back many a 
sparkling glance of triumph as she floated onward. 

Beautiful Katrinka! Flushed with youth and health, all 
life and mirth and motion, what wonder thine image, ever 
floating in advance, sped through one boy’s dreams that 
night! What wonder that it seemed his darkest hour when, 
years afterward, thy presence floated away from him 
forever. 




HANS AND GRETEL FIND A FRIEND 

At noon our young friends poured forth from the school- 
house intent upon having an hour’s practicing upon the 
canal. 

They had skated but a few moments when Carl Schum- 
mel said mockingly to Hilda: 

“There’s a pretty pair just coming upon the ice! The 
little rag-pickers! Their skates must have been a present 
from the king direct.” 

“They are patient creatures,” said Hilda, gently. “It 
must have been hard to learn to skate upon such queer 
affairs. They are very poor peasants, you see. The boy 
has probably made the skates himself.” 

Carl was somewhat abashed. 

“Patient they may be, but as for skating, they start off 
pretty well only to finish with a jerk. They could move well 
to your new staccato piece I think.” 

Hilda laughed pleasantly and left him. After joining a 
small detachment of the racers, and sailing past every one 
of them, she halted beside Gretel who, with eager eyes, had 
been watching the sport. 

“What is your name, little girl?” 

“Gretel, my lady,” answered the child, somewhat awed 

33 









34 


Hans Brinker 


by Hilda’s rank, though they were nearly of the same age, 
“and my brother is called Hans.” 

“Hans is a stout fellow,” said Hilda, cheerily, “and 
seems to have a warm stove somewhere within him, but you 
look cold. You should wear more clothing, little one.” 

Gretel, who had nothing else to wear, tried to laugh as 
she answered: 

“I am not so very little. I am past twelve years old.” 

“Oh, I beg your pardon. You see I am nearly fourteen, 
and so large of my age that other girls seem small to me, 
but that is nothing. Perhaps you will shoot up far above 
me yet; not unless you dress more warmly, though—shiver¬ 
ing girls never grow.” 

Hans flushed as he saw tears rising in Gretel’s eyes. 

“My sister has not complained of the cold; but this is 

bitter weather they say-” and he looked sadly upon 

Gretel. 

“It is nothing,” said Gretel. “I am often warm—too 
warm when I am skating. You are good, jufvrouw, 1 to 
think of it.” 

“No, no,” answered Hilda, quite angry at herself. “I 
am careless, cruel; but I meant no harm. I wanted to ask 

you—I mean—if-” and here Hilda, coming to the point 

of her errand, faltered before the poorly clad but noble¬ 
looking children she wished to serve. 

“What is it, young lady?” exclaimed Hans eagerly. “If 
there is any service I can do? any-” 

“Oh! no, no,” laughed Hilda, shaking off her embarrass¬ 
ment, “I only wished to speak to you about the grand race. 
Why do you not join it? You both can skate well, and the 
ranks are free. Any one may enter for the prize.” 

Gretel looked wistfully at Hans, who tugging at his cap, 
answered respectfully. 

(1) Miss—Young lady (pronounced yuffrow). In studied or polite address it 
would be jongvrowe (pronounced youngfrow). 





Hans and Gretel Find a Friend 


35 


“Ah, jufvrouw, even if we could enter, we could skate 
only a few strokes with the rest. Our skates are hard wood 
you see,” (holding up the sole of his foot), “but they soon 
become damp, and then they stick and trip us.” 

Gretel’s eyes twinkled with fun as she though of Hans’ 
mishap in the morning, but she blushed as she faltered out 
timidly: 

“Oh no, we can’t join; but may we be there, my lady, on 
the great day to look on?” 

“Certainly,” answered Hilda, looking kindly into the two 
earnest faces, and wishing from her heart that she had not 
spent so much of her monthly allowance for lace and finery. 
She had but eight kwartjes 1 left, and they would buy but 
one pair of skates, at the furthest. 

Looking down with a sigh at the two pairs of feet so very 
different in size, she asked: 

“Which of you is the better skater?” 

“Gretel,” replied Hans, promptly. 

“Hans,” answered Gretel, in the same breath. 

Hilda smiled. 

“I cannot buy you each a pair of skates, or even one good 
pair; but here are eight kwartjes. Decide between you 
which stands the best chance of winning the race, and buy 
the skates accordingly. I wish I had enough to buy better 
ones—good-bye!” and, with a nod and a smile, Hilda, after 
handing the money to the electrified Hans, glided swiftly 
away to rejoin her companions. 

“Jufvrouw! jufvrouw von Gleck!” called Hans in a loud 
tone, stumbling after her as well as he could, for one of his 
skate-strings was untied. 

Hilda turned, and with one hand raised to shield her eyes 
from the sun, seemed to him to be floating through the air, 
nearer and nearer. 

(1) A kwartje is a small silver coin worth one-quarter of a guilder, or 10 cents 
in American currency. 




3G 


Hans Brinker 


“We cannot take this money,’’ panted Hans, “though we 
know your goodness in giving it.” 

“Why not indeed*?” asked Hilda flushing. 

“Because,” replied Hans, bowing like a clown, but look¬ 
ing with the eye of a prince at the queenly girl, “we have 
not earned it.” 

Hilda was quick-witted. She had noticed a pretty 
wooden chain upon Gretel’s neck. 

“Carve me a chain, Hans, like the one your sister wears.” 

“That I will, lady, with all my heart; we have white wood 
in the house, fine as ivory; you shall have one to-morrow,” 
and Hans hastily tried to return the money. 

“No, no,” said Hilda decidedly. “That sum will be but 
a poor price for the chain,” and off she darted, outstrip¬ 
ping the fleetest among the skaters. 

Hans sent a long, bewildered gaze after her; it was use¬ 
less he felt to make any further resistance. 

“It is right,” he muttered, half to himself, half to his 
faithful shadow, Gretel, “I must work hard every minute, 
and sit up half the night if the mother will let me burn a 
candle; but the chain shall be finished. We may keep the 
money, Gretel.” 

“What a good little lady!” cried Gretel, clapping her 
hands with delight, “O Hans! was it for nothing the stork 
settled on our roof last summer? Do you remember how 
the mother said it would bring us luck and how she cried 
when Janzoon Kolp shot him? And she said it would bring 
him trouble. But the luck has come to us at last! Now, 
Hans, if mother sends us to town to-morrow you can buy 
the skates in the market-place.” 

Hans shook his head. “The young lady would have given 
us the money to buy skates, but if I earn it, Gretel, it shall 
be spent for wool. You must have a warm jacket.” 

“Oh,” cried Gretel, in real dismay, “not buy the skates! 
Why, I am not often cold! Mother says the blood runs up 



Hans and Gretel Find a Friend 


37 


and down in poor children’s veins humming, ‘I must keep 
’em warm! I must keep ’em warm.’ ” 

“Oh, Hans,” she continued with something like a sob, 
“don’t say you won’t buy the skates, it makes me feel just 
like crying—besides, I want to be cold—I mean I’m real, 
awful warm—so now!” 

Hans looked up hurriedly. He had a true Dutch horror 
of tears, or emotion of any kind, and, most of all, he 
dreaded to see his sister’s blue eyes overflowing. 

“Now mind,” cried Gretel, seeing her advantage, “I’ll 
feel awful if you give up the skates. I don’t want them. 
I’m not such a stingy as that; but I want you to have them, 
and then when I get bigger they’ll do for me—oh-h! count 
the pieces, Hans. Did you ever see so many!” 

Hans turned the money thoughtfully in his palm. Never 
in all his life had he longed so intensely for a pair of skates, 
for he had known of the race and had, boy-like, fairly ached 
for a chance to test his powers with the other children. He 
felt confident that with a good pair of steel runners, he 
could readily distance most of the boys on the canal. Then, 
too, Gretel’s argument was so plausible. On the other hand, 
he knew that she, with her strong but lithe little frame, 
needed but a week’s practice on good runners, to make her 
a better skater than Rychie Korbes or even Katrinka 
Flack. As soon as this last thought flashed upon him his 
resolve was made. If Gretel would not have the jacket, she 
should have the skates. 

“No, Gretel,” he answered at last, “I can wait. Some 
day I may have money enough saved to buy a fine pair. You 
shall have these.” 

Gretel’s eyes sparkled; but in another instant she 
insisted, rather faintly: 

“The young lady gave the money to you, Hans. I’d be 
real bad to take it.” 



38 


Hans Brinker 


Hans shook his head, resolutely, as he trudged on, caus¬ 
ing his sister to half skip and half walk in her effort to keep 
beside him; by this time they had taken off their wooden 
“rockers,” and were hastening home to tell their mother 
the good news. 

“Oh! I know!” cried Gretel, in a sprightly tone. “You 
can do this. You can get a pair a little too small for you, 
and too big for me, and we can take turns and use them. 
Won’t that be fine?” and Gretel clapped her hands again. 

Poor Hans! This was a strong temptation, but he 
pushed it away from him, brave-hearted fellow that he was. 

“Nonsense, Gretel. You could never get on with a big 
pair. You stumbled about with these, like a blind chicken, 
before I carved off the ends. No, you must have a pair to 
fit exactly, and you must practice every chance you can get, 
until the Twentieth comes. My little Gretel shall win the 
silver skates.” 

Gretel could not help laughing with delight at the very 
idea. 

“Hans! Gretel!” called out a familiar voice. 

“Coming, mother!” and they hastened toward the cot¬ 
tage, Hans still shaking the pieces of silver in his hand. 

On the following day, there was not a prouder nor a hap¬ 
pier boy in all Holland than Hans Brinker, as he watched 
his sister, with many a dexterous sweep, flying in and out 
among the skaters who at sundown thronged the canal. A 
warm jacket had been given her by the kind-hearted Hilda, 
and the burst-out shoes had been cobbled into decency by 
Dame Brinker. As the little creature darted backward and 
forward, flushed with enjoyment, and quite unconscious of 
the many wondering glances bent upon her, she felt that 
the shining runners beneath her feet had suddenly turned 
earth into Fairyland, while “Hans, dear, good Hans!” 
echoed itself over and over again in her grateful heart. 



Hans and Gretel Find a Friend 


39 


“By den donder!” exclaimed Peter van Holp to Carl 
Schummel, “but that little one in the red jacket and 
patched petticoat skates well. Gunst! she has toes on her 
heels, and eyes in the back of her head! See her. It will be 
a joke if she gets in the race and beats Katrinka Flack, 
after all.” 

“Hush! not so loud!” returned Carl, rather sneeringly. 
“That little lady in rags is the special pet of Hilda van 
Gleck. Those shining skates are her gift, if I make no 
mistake.” 

“So! so!” exclaimed Peter, with a radiant smile, for 
Hilda was his best friend. “She has been at her good work 
there, too!” And Mynheer van Holp, after cutting a 
double 8 on the ice, to say nothing of a huge P, then a jump, 
and an H, glided onward until he found himself beside 
Hilda. 

Hand in hand, they skated together, laughingly at first, 
then staidly talking in a low tone. 

Strange to say, Peter van Holp soon arrived at a sudden 
conviction that his little sister needed a wooden chain just 
like Hilda’s. 

Two days afterward, on St. Nicholas’ Eve, Hans, having 
burned three candle-ends, and cut his thumb into the bar¬ 
gain, stood in the market-place at Amsterdam, buying 
another pair of skates. 




Good Dame Brinker! As soon as the scanty dinner had 
been cleared away that noon, she had arrayed herself in 
her holiday attire, in honor of Saint Nicholas. “It will 
brighten the children,” she thought to herself, and she was 
not mistaken. This festival dress had been worn very 
seldom during the past ten years; before that time it had 
done good service, and had flourished at many a dance and 
Kermis, when she was known, far and wide, as the pretty 
Meitje Klenck. The children had sometimes been granted 
rare glimpses of it as it lay in state in the old oaken chest. 
Faded and threadbare as it was, it was gorgeous in their 
eyes, with its white linen tucker, now gathered to her plump 
throat, and vanishing beneath the trim bodice of blue home- 
spun, and its reddish brown skirt bordered with black. The 
knitted woolen mitts, and the dainty cap showing her hair, 
which generally was hidden, made her seem almost like a 

40 




















Shadows in the Home 


41 


princess to Gretel, while master Hans grew staid and well- 
behaved as he gazed. 

Soon the little maid, while braiding her own golden 
tresses, fairly danced around her mother in an ecstasy of 
admiration. 

“Oh, mother, mother, mother, how pretty you are! Look, 
Hans, isn’t it just like a picture?” 

“Just like a picture,” assented Hans, cheerfully, “just 
like a picture—only I don’t like those stocking things on 
the hands.” 

“Not like the mitts, brother Hans! why, they’re very 
important—see—they cover up all the red. Oh, mother, 
how white your arm is where the mitt leaves off, whiter 
than mine, oh, ever so much whiter. I declare, mother, the 
bodice is tight for you. You’re growing! You’re surely 
growing! ’ ’ 

Dame Brinker laughed. 

“This was made long ago, lovey, when I wasn’t much 
thicker about the waist than a churn-dasher. And how do 
you like the cap?” turning her head from side to side. 

“Oh, ever so much, mother. It’s b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-1-! See, 
the father is looking!” 

Was the father looking? Alas, only with a dull stare. 
His vrouw turned toward him with a start, something like 
a blush rising to her cheeks, a questioning sparkle in her 
eye. The bright look died away in an instant. 

“No, no,” she sighed, “he sees nothing. Come, Hans,” 
(and the smile crept faintly back again,) “don’t stand 
gaping at me all day, and the new skates waiting for you at 
Amsterdam.” 

“Ah, mother,” he answered, “you need many things. 
Why should I buy skates?” 

“Nonsense, child. The money was given to you on pur¬ 
pose, or the work was—it’s all the same thing—Go while 
the sun is high.” 



42 


Hans Brinker 


“Yes, and hurry back, Hans!” laughed Gretel; “we’ll 
race on the canal to-night, if the mother lets us.” 

At the very threshold he turned to say, “Your spinning 
wheel wants a new treadle, mother.” 

“You can make it, Hans.” 

“So I can. That will take no money. But you need 
feathers, and wool and meal, and-” 

“There, there! That will do. Your silver cannot buy 
everything. Ah! Hans, if our stolen money would but 
come back on this bright Saint Nicholas’ Eve, how glad we 
would be! Only last night I prayed to the good Saint-” 

“Mother!” interrupted Hans in dismay. 

“Why not, Hans! Shame on you to reproach me for 
that! I’m as true a Protestant, in sooth, as any fine lady 
that walks into church, but it’s no wrong to turn sometimes 
to the good Saint Nicholas. Tut! It’s a likely story if one 
can’t do that, without one’s children flaring up at it—and 
he the boys’ and girls’ own saint—Hoot! mayhap the colt 
is a steadier horse than the mare?” 

Hans knew his mother too well to offer a word in oppo¬ 
sition, when her voice quickened and sharpened as it did 
now (it was often sharp and quick when she spoke of the 
missing money) ; so he said, gently: 

“And what did you ask of good Saint Nicholas, 
mother?” 

“Why, to never give the thieves a wink of sleep till they 
brought it back, to be sure, if he’s power to do such things, 
or else to brighten our wits that we might find it ourselves. 
Not a sight have I had of it since the day before the dear 
father was hurt—as you well know, Hans.” 

“That I do, mother,” he answered sadly, “though you 
have almost pulled down the cottage in searching.” 

“Aye; but it was of no use,” moaned the dame, “ Aiders 
make best finders.’ ” 




Shadows in the Home 


43 


Hans started. “Do you think the father could tell 
aught?” he asked mysteriously. 

“Aye, indeed,” said Dame Brinker, nodding her head, 

‘ 4 1 think so, but that is no sign. I never hold the same belief 
in the matter two days. Mayhap the father paid it off for 
the great silver watch we have been guarding since that day. 
But, no—I’ll never believe it.” 

“The w T atch was not worth a quarter of the money, 
mother.” 

“No, indeed; and your father was a shrewd man up to 
the last moment. He was too steady and thrifty for silly 
doings.” 

“Where did the watch come from, I wonder,” muttered 
Hans, half to himself. 

Dame Brinker shook her head, and looked sadly toward 
her husband, who sat staring blankly at the floor. Gretel 
stood near him, knitting. 

“That we shall never know, Hans. I have shown it to 
the father many a time, but he does not know it from a 
potato. When he came in that dreadful night to supper he 
handed the watch to me and told me to take good care of it 
until he asked for it again. Just as he opened his lips to 
say more, Broom Klatterboost came flying in with word 
that the dyke was in danger. Ah! the waters were terrible 
that holy Pinxter-week! My man, alack, caught up his 
tools and ran out. That was the last I ever saw of him in 
his right mind. He was brought in again by midnight, 
nearly dead, with his poor head all bruised and cut. The 
fever passed off in time but never the dullness —that grew 
worse every day. We shall never know.” 

Hans had heard all this before. More than once he had 
seen his mother, in hours of sore need, take the watch from 
its hiding-place, half-resolved to sell it, but she had always 
conquered the temptation. 

“No, Hans,” she would say, “we must be nearer starving 
than this before we turn faithless to the father!” 



44 


Hans Brinker 


A memory of some such scene crossed her son’s mind 
now; for, after giving a heavy sigh, and filliping a crumb 
of wax at Gretel across the table, he said: 

“ Aye, mother, you have done bravely to keep it—many a 
one would have tossed it off for gold long ago.” 

“And more shame for them!” exclaimed the dame, indig¬ 
nantly. “I would not do it. Besides, the gentry are so 
hard on us poor folks that if they saw such a thing in our 
hands, even if we told all, they might suspect the father 
of-” 

Hans flushed angrily. 

“They would not dare to say such a thing, mother! If 
they did, I’d-” 

He clenched his fist, and seemed to think that the rest of 
his sentence was too terrible to utter in her presence. 

Dame Brinker smiled proudly through her tears at this 
interruption. 

“Ah, Hans, thou’rt a true, brave lad. We will never part 
company with the watch. In his dying hour the dear father 
might wake and ask for it.” 

“Might wake, mother!” echoed Hans, “wake—and know 
us?” 

“Aye, child,” almost whispered his mother, “such things 
have been.” 

By this time Hans had nearly forgotten his proposed 
errand to Amsterdam. His mother had seldom spoken so 
familiarly with him. He felt himself now to be not only 
her son, but her friend, her adviser. 

“You are right, mother. We must never give up the 
watch. For the father’s sake, we will guard it always. The 
money, though, may come to light when we least expect it.” 

“Never,” cried Dame Brinker, taking the last stitch from 
her needle with a jerk, and laying the unfinished knitting 
heavily upon her lap. “There is no chance! One thousand 
guilders! and all gone in a day! One thousand guilders— 



Shadows in the Home 


45 


Oh! what ever did become of them ? If they went in an evil 
way, the thief would have confessed by this on his dying 
bed; he would not dare to die with such guilt on his soul!” 

“He may not be dead yet,” said Hans, soothingly; “any 
day we may hear of him.” 

“Ah, child,” she said in a changed tone, “what thief 
would ever have come here? It was always neat and clean, 
thank God! but not fine; for the father and I saved and 
saved that we might have something laid by. ‘ Little and 
often soon fills the pouch.’ We found it so, in truth; be¬ 
sides, the father had a goodly sum already, for service done 
to the Heernocht lands, at the time of the great inun¬ 
dation. Every week we had a guilder left over, sometimes 
more; for the father worked extra hours, and could get 
high pay for his labor. Every Saturday night we put some¬ 
thing by, except the time when you had the fever, Hans, and 
when Gretel came. At last the pouch grew so full that I 
mended an old stocking and commenced again. Now that I 
look back, it seems that the money was up to the heel in a 
few sunny weeks. There was great pay in those days if a 
man was quick at engineer work. The stocking went on 
filling with copper and silver—aye, and gold. You may 
well open your eyes, Gretel. I used to laugh and tell the 
father it was not for poverty I wore my old gown; and 
the stocking went on filling—so full that sometimes when 
I woke at night, I’d get up, soft and quiet, and go feel it in 
the moonlight. Then, on my knees, I would thank our Lord 
that my little ones could in time get good learning, and that 
the father might rest from labor in his old age. Sometimes, 
at supper, the father and I would talk about a new chim¬ 
ney and a good winter-room for the cow; but my man for¬ 
sooth had finer plans even than that. ‘A big sail,’ says he, 
‘catches the wind—we can do what we will soon,’ and then 
we would sing together as I washed my dishes. Ah, ‘a 
smooth sea makes an easy rudder,’—not a thing vexed me 



46 


Hans Brinker 


from morning till night. Every week the father would take 
out the stocking, and drop in the money and laugh and kiss 
me as we tied it up together.—Up with you, Hans! there 
you sit gaping, and the day a-wasting!” added Dame 
Brinker tartly, blushing to find that she had been speaking 
too freely to her boy; “it’s high time you were on your 
way.” 

Hans had seated himself and was looking earnestly into 
her face. He arose, and, in almost a whisper, asked: 

“Have you ever tried, mother?” 

She understood him. 

“Yes, child, often. But the father only laughs, or he 
stares at me so strange I am glad to ask no more. When 
you and Gretel had the fever last winter, and our bread 
was nearly gone, and I could earn nothing, for fear you 
would die while my face was turned, oh! I tried then! I 
smoothed his hair, and whispered to him soft as a kitten, 
about the money—where it was—who had it? Alack! he 
would pick at my sleeve, and whisper gibberish till my blood 
ran cold. At last, while Gretel lay whiter than snow, and 
you were raving on the bed, I screamed to him—it seemed 
as if he must hear me—‘Raff, where is our money? Do you 
know aught of the money, Raff ?—the money in the pouch 
and the stocking, in the big chest?’—but I might as well 
have talked to a stone—I might as-” 

The mother’s voice sounded so strangely, and her eye was 
so bright, than Hans, with a new anxiety, laid his hand 
upon her shoulder. 

“Come, mother,” he said, “let us try to forget this 
money. I am big and strong—Gretel, too, is very quick and 
willing. Soon all will be prosperous with us again. Why, 
mother, Gretel and I would rather see thee bright and 
happy, than to have all the silver in the world—wouldn’t 
we, Gretel?” 

“The mother knows it,” said Gretel, sobbing. 





SUNBEAMS 

Dame Brinker was startled at her children’s emotion, 
glad, too, for it proved how loving and true they were. 

Beautiful ladies, in princely homes, often smile suddenly 
and sweetly, gladdening the very air around them; but I 
doubt if their smile be more welcome in God’s sight than 
that which sprang forth to cheer the roughly clad boy and 
girl in the humble cottage. Dame Brinker felt that she 
had been selfish. Blushing and brightening, she hastily 
wiped her eyes, and looked upon them as only a mother 
can. 

“Hoity! Toity! Pretty talk we’re having, and Saint 
Nicholas’ Eve almost here! What wonder the yarn pricks 
my fingers! Come, Gretel, take this cent , 1 and while Hans 


(1) The Dutch cent is worth less than half of an American cent. 



























48 


Hans Brinker 


is trading for the skates you can buy a waffle in the market¬ 
place.” 

< ‘ Let me stay home with you, mother, ’ 9 said Gretel, look¬ 
ing up with eyes that sparkled through their tears. “Hans 
will buy me the cake.” 

“As you will, child, and Hans—wait a moment. Three 
turns of the needle will finish this toe, and then you may 
have as good a pair of hose as ever were knitted (owning 
the yarn is a grain too sharp,) to sell to the hosier on the 
Heireen Gracht . 1 That will give us three quarter-guilders 
if you make good trade; and as it’s right hungry weather, 
you may buy four waffles. We’ll keep the Feast of Saint 
Nicholas after all.” 

Gretel clapped her hands. “That will be fine! Annie 
Bouman told me what grand times they will have in the big 
houses to-night. But we will be merry too. Hans will have 
beautiful new skates,—and then there’ll be the waffles! 
Oh-h! Don’t break them, brother Hans. Wrap them well, 
and button them under your jacket very carefully.” 

“Certainly,” replied Hans quite gruff with pleasure and 
importance. 

“Oh! mother!” cried Gretel in high glee, “soon you will 
be busied with the father, and now you are only knitting. 
Do tell us all about Saint Nicholas!” 

Dame Brinker laughed to see Hans hang up his hat and 
prepare to listen. “Nonsense, children,” she said, “I have 
told it to you often.” 

“Tell us again! oh, do tell us again!” cried Gretel, throw¬ 
ing herself upon the wonderful wooden bench that her 
brother had made on the mother’s last birthday. Hans, not 
wishing to appear childish, and yet quite willing to hear 
the story, stood carelessly swinging his skates against the 
fireplace. 


(1) A street in Amsterdam. 






49 























































50 


Sunbeams 


“Well, children, you shall hear it, but we must never 
waste the daylight again in this way. Pick up your ball, 
Gretel, and let your sock grow as I talk. Opening your 
ears needn’t shut your fingers. Saint Nicholas, you must 
know, is a wonderful saint. He keeps his eye open for the 
good of sailors, but he cares most of all for boys and girls. 
Well, once upon a time, when he was living on the earth, a 
merchant of Asia sent his three sons to a great city, called 
Athens, to get learning.” 

“Is Athens in Holland, mother?” asked Gretel. 

“I don’t know, child. Probably it is.” 

“Oh, no, mother,” said Hans, respectfully. “I had that 
in my geography lessons long ago. Athens is in Greece.” 

“Well,” resumed the mother, “what matter? Greece 
may belong to the King, for aught we know. Anyhow, this 
rich merchant sent his sons to Athens. While they were on 
their way, they stopped one night at a shabby inn, meaning 
to take up their journey in the morning. Well, they had 
very fine clothes,—velvet and silk, it may be, such as rich 
folks’ children, all over the world, think nothing of wearing 
—and their belts, likewise, were full of money. What did 
the wicked landlord do, but contrive a plan to kill the chil¬ 
dren, and take their money and all their beautiful clothes 
himself. So that night, when all the world was asleep he 
got up and killed the three young gentlemen.” 

Gretel clasped her hands and shuddered, but Hans tried 
to look as if killing and murder were every-day matters to 
him. 

“That was not the worst of it,” continued Dame Brinker, 
knitting slowly, and trying to keep count of her stitches as 
she talked, “that was not near the worst of it. The dreadful 
landlord went and cut up the young gentlemen’s bodies into 
little pieces, and threw them into a great tub of brine, 
intending to sell them for pickled pork!” 

“Oh!” cried Gretel, horror-stricken, though she had 



Sunbeams 


51 


often heard the story before. Hans still continued un¬ 
moved, and seemed to think that pickling was the best that 
could be done under the circumstances. 

“Yes, he pickled them, and one might think that would 
have been the last of the young gentlemen. But no. That 
night Saint Nicholas had a wonderful vision, and in it he 
saw the landlord cutting up the merchant’s children. There 
was no need of his hurrying, you know, for he was a saint; 
but in the morning he went to the inn and charged the 
landlord with the murder. Then the wicked landlord con¬ 
fessed it from beginning to end, and fell down on his knees, 
begging forgiveness. He felt so sorry for what he had done 
that he asked the saint to bring the young masters to life.” 

“And did the saint do it?” asked Gretel, delighted, well 
knowing what the answer would be. 

“Of course he did. The pickled pieces flew together in 
an instant, and out jumped the young gentlemen from the 
brine-tub. They cast themselves at the feet of Saint 
Nicholas and he gave them his blessing, and—oh! mercy on 
us, Hans, it will be dark before you get back if you don’t 
start this minute!” 

By this time Dame Brinker was almost out of breath and 
quite out of commas. She could not remember when she 
had seen the children idle away an hour of daylight in this 
manner, and the thought of such luxury quite appalled her. 
By way of compensation she now flew about the room in 
extreme haste. Tossing a block of peat upon the fire, blow¬ 
ing invisible dust from the table, and handing the finished 
hose to Hans, all in an instant— 

“Come, Hans,” she said, as her boy lingered by the door, 
“what keeps thee?” 

Hans kissed his mother’s plump cheek, rosy and fresh 
yet, in spite of all her troubles. 

“My mother is the best in the world, and I would be right 
glad to have a pair of skates, but”—and, as he buttoned his 



52 


Hans Brinker 


jacket, he looked, in a troubled way, toward a strange figure 
crouching by the hearth-stone—“if my money would bring 
a meester 1 from Amsterdam to see the father, something 
might yet be done.” 

“A meester would not come, Hans, for twice that money, 
and it would do no good if he did. Ah! how many guilders 
I once spent for that; but the dear, good father would not 
waken. It is God’s will. Go, Hans, and buy the skates.” 

Hans started with a heavy heart, but since the heart was 
young, and in a boy’s bosom, it set him whistling in less 
than five minutes. His mother had said “thee” to him, and 
that was quite enough to make even a dark day sunny. 
Hollanders do not address each other, in affectionate inter¬ 
course, as the French and Germans do. But Dame Brinker 
had embroidered for a Heidelberg family in her girlhood, 
and she had carried its “thee” and “thou” into her rude 
home, to be used in moments of extreme love and ten¬ 
derness. 

Therefore, “What keeps thee, Hans'?” sang an echo song 
beneath the boy’s whistling, and made him feel that his 
errand was blest. 


(1) Doctor (dokter in Dutch) called meester by the lower class. 





HANS HAS HIS WAY 

Broek, with its quiet, spotless streets, its frozen rivulets, 
its yellow brick pavements, and bright wooden houses, was 
near by. It was a village where neatness and show were in 
full blossom; but the inhabitants seemed to be either asleep 
or dead. 

Not a footprint marred the sanded paths, where pebbles 
and sea-shells lay in fanciful designs. Every window- 
shutter was closed as tightly as though air and sunshine 
were poison; and the massive front doors were never 
opened except on the occasion of a wedding, christening, 
or a funeral. 

Serene clouds of tobacco-smoke were floating through 
hidden apartments, and children, who otherwise might 
have awakened the place, were studying in out-of-the-way 

53 























54 


Hans Brinker 


comers, or skating upon the neighboring canal. A few pea¬ 
cocks and wolves stood in the gardens, but they had never 
enjoyed the luxury of flesh and blood. They were cut-out 
in growing box, and seemed guarding the grounds with a 
sort of green ferocity. Certain lively automata, ducks, 
women and sportsmen, were stowed away in summer¬ 
houses, waiting for the springtime, when they could be 
wound up, and rival their owners in animation; and the 
shining, tiled roofs, mosaic courtyards and polished house- 
trimmings flashed up a silent homage to the sky, where 
never a speck of dust could dwell. 

Hans glanced toward the village, as he shook his silver 
kwartjes, and wondered whether it were really true, as he 
had often heard, that some of the people of Broek were so 
rich that they used kitchen utensils of solid gold. 

He had seen Mevrouw van Stoop’s sweet-cheeses in 
market, and he knew that the lofty dame earned many a 
bright, silver guilder in selling them. But did she set the 
cream to rise in golden pans? Did she use a golden skim¬ 
mer? When her cows were in winter quarters, were their 
tails really tied up with ribbons ? 

These thoughts ran through his mind as he turned his 
face toward Amsterdam, not five miles away, on the other 
side of the frozen Y . 1 The ice upon the canal was perfect; 
but his wooden runners, so soon to be cast aside, squeaked 
in dismal farewell, as he scraped and skimmed along. 

When crossing the Y, whom should he see skating toward 
him but the great Dr. Boekman, the most famous physician 
and surgeon in Holland. Hans had never met him before, 
but he had seen his engraved likeness in many of the shop- 
windows of Amsterdam. It was a face that one could never 
forget. Thin and lank, though a born Dutchman, with 
stern, blue eyes, and queer, compressed lips, that seemed to 


(1) Pronounced Eye, an arm of the Zuider Zee. 




Hans Has His Way 


55 


say, “No smiling permitted,” he certainly was not a very 
jolly or sociable looking personage, nor one that a well- 
trained boy would care to accost unbidden. 

But Hans was bidden, and that, too, by a voice he seldom 
disregarded—his own conscience. 

“Here comes the greatest doctor in the world,” whis¬ 
pered the voice. “God has sent him; you have no right to 
buy skates when you might, with the same money, purchase 
such aid for your father!” 

The wooden runners gave an exultant squeak. Hundreds 
of beautiful skates were gleaming and vanishing in the air 
above him. He felt the money tingle in his fingers. The 
old doctor looked fearfully grim and forbidding. Hans’ 
heart was in his throat, but he found voice enough to cry 
out, just as he was passing: 

“Mynheer Boekman!” 

The great man halted, and sticking out his thin under 
lip, looked scowlingly about him. 

Hans was in for it now. 

“Mynheer,” he panted, drawing close to the fierce-look- 
ing doctor, “I knew you could be none other than the 
famous Boekman. I have to ask a great favor-” 

“Humph!” muttered the doctor, preparing to skate past 
the intruder, “get out of the way—I’ve no money—never 
give to beggars.” 

“I am no beggar, Mynheer,” retorted Hans proudly, at 
the same time producing his mite of silver with a grand air. 
“I wish to consult with you about my father. He is a living 
man, but sits like one dead. He cannot think. His words 
mean nothing—but he is not sick. He fell on the dykes.” 

“Hey? what?” cried the doctor beginning to listen. 

Hans told the whole story in an incoherent way, dashing 
off a tear once or twice as he talked, and finally ending with 
an earnest,— 

“Oh, do see him, Mynheer. His body is well—it is only 



56 


Hans Brinker 


his mind—I know this money is not enough; but take it, 
Mynheer, I will earn more—I know I will—Oh! I will toil 
for you all my life, if you will but cure my father!” 

What was the matter with the old doctor ? A brightness 
like sunlight beamed from his face. His eyes were kind 
and moist; the hand that had lately clutched his cane, as if 
preparing to strike, was laid gently upon Hans’ shoulder. 

44 Put up your money, boy, I do not want it—we will see 
your father. It is a hopeless case, I fear. How long did 
you say?” 

44 Ten years, Mynheer,” sobbed Hans, radiant with sud¬ 
den hope. 

44 Ah! a bad case; but I shall see him. Let me think. 
To-day I start for Leyden, to return in a week, then you 
may expect me. Where is it?” 

44 A mile south of Broek, Mjmheer, near the canal. It is 
only a poor, broken-down hut. Any of the children there¬ 
about can point it out to your honor,” added Hans, with a 
heavy sigh; 4 4 they are all half afraid of the place; they call 
it the idiot’s cottage.” 

44 That will do,” said the doctor, hurrying on, with a 
bright backward nod at Hans, 44 I shall be there. A hope¬ 
less case,” he muttered to himself, 44 but the boy pleases me. 
His eye is like my poor Laurens. Confound it, shall I never 
forget that young scoundrel!” And, scowling more darkly 
than ever, the doctor pursued his silent way. 

Again Hans was skating toward Amsterdam on the 
squeaking wooden runners; again his fingers tingled 
against the money in his pocket; again the boyish whistle 
rose unconsciously to his lips. 

44 Shall I hurry home,” he was thinking, 44 to tell the good 
news, or shall I get the waffles and the new skates first? 
Whew! I think I’ll go on!” 

And so Hans bought the skates. 




INTRODUCING JACOB POOT AND HIS COUSIN 

Hans and Gretel had a fine frolic early on that Saint 
Nicholas’ Eve. There was a bright moon; and their mother, 
though she believed herself to be without any hope of her 
husband’s improvement, had been made so happy at the 
prospect of the meester’s visit, that she had yielded to the 
children’s entreaties for an hour’s skating before bedtime. 

Hans was delighted with his new skates, and in his eager¬ 
ness to show Gretel how perfectly they “worked” did many 
things upon the ice, that caused the little maid to clasp her 
hands in solemn admiration. They were not alone, though 
they seemed quite unheeded by the various groups assem¬ 
bled upon the canal. 

The two Van Holps, and Carl Schummel were there, test¬ 
ing their fleetness to the utmost. Out of four trials Peter 
van Holp had beaten three times. Consequently Carl, 
never very amiable, was in anything but a good humor. He 

57 














58 


Hans Brinker 


had relieved himself by taunting young Schimmelpenninck 
who, being smaller than the others, kept meekly near them, 
without feeling exactly like one of the party; but now a 
new thought seized Carl, or rather he seized the new 
thought and made an onset upon his friends. 

“I say, boys, let’s put a stop to those young ragpickers 
from the idiot’s cottage joining the race. Hilda must be 
crazy to think of it. Katrinka Flack and Rychie Korbes 
are furious at the very idea of racing with the girl; and for 
my part, I don’t blame them. As for the boy, if we’ve a 
spark of manhood in us we will scorn the very idea of-” 

“Certainly we will!” interposed Peter van Holp, pur¬ 
posely mistaking Carl’s meaning, “who doubts it? No 
fellow with a spark of manhood in him would refuse to let 
in two good skaters just because they were poor!” 

Carl wheeled about savagely: 

“Not so fast, master! And I’d thank you not to put words 
in other people’s mouths. You’d best not try it again.” 

“Ha! ha!” laughed little Yoostenwalbert Schimmelpen¬ 
ninck, delighted at the prospect of a fight, and sure that, 
if it should come to blows, his favorite Peter could beat a 
dozen excitable fellows like Carl. 

Something in Peter’s eye made Carl glad to turn to a 
weaker offender. He wheeled furiously upon Voost. 

“What are you shrieking about, you little weasel! You 
skinny herring, you! you little monkey with a long name for 
a tail!” 

Half a dozen bystanders and by-skaters set up an ap¬ 
plauding shout at this brave witticism; and Carl, feeling 
that he had fairly vanquished his foes, was restored to par¬ 
tial good humor. He, however, prudently resolved to defer 
plotting against Hans and Gretel until some time when 
Peter should not be present. 

Just then, his friend, Jacob Poot, was seen approaching. 
They could not distinguish his features at first; but as he 



Introducing Jacob Foot and His Cousin 


59 


was the stoutest boy in the neighborhood there could be no 
mistaking his form. 

“Hola! here comes Fatty!” exclaimed Carl, “and there’s 
some one with him, a slender fellow, a stranger. ’’ 

“Ha! ha! that’s like good bacon,” cried Ludwig; “a 
streak of lean and a streak of fat.” 

“That’s Jacob’s English cousin,” put in Master Yoost, 
delighted at being able to give the information, “that’s his 
English cousin, and, oh! he’s got such a funny little name,— 
Ben Dobbs. He’s going to stay with him until after the 
grand race.” 

All this time the boys had been spinning, turning, “roll¬ 
ing” and doing other feats upon their skates, in a quiet way, 
as they talked; but now they stood still, bracing themselves 
against the frosty air as Jacob Poot and his friend drew 
near. 

“This is my cousin, boys,” said Jacob, rather out of 
breath—“Benjamin Dobbs. He’s a John Bull and he’s 
going to be in the race.” 

All crowded, boy-fashion, about the newcomers. Benja¬ 
min soon made up his mind that the Hollanders, notwith¬ 
standing their queer gibberish, were a fine set of fellows. 

If the truth must be told, Jacob had announced his cousin 
as “Penchamin Dopps,” and called him a “Shon Pull,” but 
as I translate every word of the conversation of our young 
friends, it is no more than fair to mend their little attempts 
at English. Master Dobbs felt at first decidedly awkward 
among his cousin’s friends. Though most of them had 
studied English and French, they were shy about attempt¬ 
ing to speak either, and he made very funny blunders when 
he tried to converse in Dutch. He had learned that vrouw 
means wife, and ja, yes; and spoorweg, railway; kctnaals, 
canals; stoomboot, steamboat; ophadlbruggen, draw¬ 
bridges; buiten plasten, country seats; mynheer, mister; 
tweegevegt, duel or two-fights; koper, copper; zadel , sad- 



60 


Hans Brinker 


die; but he could not make a sentence out of these, nor use 
the long list of phrases he had learned in his “ Dutch Dia¬ 
logues.’ ’ The topics of the latter were fine, but were never 
alluded to by the boys. Like the poor fellow who had 
learned in Ollendorf to ask in faultless German “Have you 
seen my grandmother’s red cow?” and when he reached 
Germany discovered that he had no occasion to inquire 
after that interesting animal, Ben found that his book- 
Dutch did not avail him as much as he had hoped. He 
acquired a hearty contempt for Jan van Gorp, a Hollander 
who wrote a book in Latin to prove that Adam and Eve 
spoke Dutch; and he smiled a knowing smile when his uncle 
Poot assured him that Dutch “had great likeness mit 
Zinglish but it vash much petter languish, much petter.” 

However, the fun of skating glides over all barriers of 
speech. Through this, Ben soon felt that he knew the boys 
well; and when Jacob (with a sprinkling of French and 
English for Ben’s benefit) told of a grand project they had 
planned, his cousin could now and then put in a “ Ja,” or a 
nod, in quite a familiar way. 

The project was a grand one, and there was to be a fine 
opportunity for carrying it out; for, besides the allotted 
holiday of the Festival of Saint Nicholas, four extra days 
were to be allowed for a general cleaning of the school- 
house. 

Jacob and Ben had obtained permission to go on a long 
skating journey—no less a one than from Broek to the 
Hague, the capital of Holland, a distance of nearly fifty 
miles ! 1 

“And now, boys,” added Jacob, when he had told the 
plan, “who will go with us?” 

“I will! I will!” cried the boys eagerly. 

(1) Throughout this narrative distances are given according to our standard, 
the English statute mile of 5280 ft. The Dutch mile is more than four times as 
long as ours. 




Introducing Jacob Poot and His Cousin 


61 


“And so will I!” ventured little Voostenwalbert. 

“Ha! ha!” laughed Jacob, holding his fat sides, and 
shaking his puffy cheeks, “you go? Such a little fellow as 
you ? Why, youngster, you haven’t left off your pads yet!” 

Now in Holland very young children wear a thin, padded 
cushion around their heads, surmounted with a framework 
of whalebone and ribbon, to protect them in case of a fall; 
and it is the dividing line between babyhood and childhood 
when they leave it off. Voost had arrived at this dignity 
several years before; consequently Jacob’s insult was 
rather too great for endurance. 

‘ ‘ Look out what you say! ” he squeaked. ‘ ‘ Lucky for you 
when you can leave off your pads—you’re padded all over!” 

“Ha! ha!” roared all the boys except Master Dobbs, who 
could not understand. “Ha! ha!”—and the good-natured 
Jacob laughed more than any. 

“It ish my fat—yaw—he say I bees pad mit fat!” he 
explained to Ben. 

So a vote was passed unanimously in favor of allowing 
the now popular Voost to join the party, if his parents 
would consent. 

“Good-night!” sang out the happy youngster, skating 
homeward with all his might. 

“Good-night!” 

“We can stop at Haarlem, Jacob, and show your cousin 
the big organ,” said Peter van Holp, eagerly, “and at 
Leyden, too, where there’s no end to the sights; and spend a 
day and night at the Hague, for my married sister, who 
lives there, will be delighted to see us; and the next morn¬ 
ing we can start for home.” 

“All right!” responded Jacob, who was not much of a 
talker. 

Ludwig had been regarding his brother with enthusiastic 
admiration. 



62 


Hans Brinker 


“Hurrah for you, Pete! It takes you to make plans! 
Mother’ll be as full of it as we are when we tell her we can 
take her love direct to Sister Van Gend. My! but it’s cold,” 
he added, ‘‘cold enough to take a fellow’s head off his 
shoulders. We’d better go home.’’ 

“What if it is cold, old Tender-skin?” cried Carl, who 
was busily practicing a step which he called the “double 
edge.” “Great skating we should have by this time, if it 
was as warm as it was last December. Don’t you know if it 
wasn’t an extra cold winter, and an early one into the bar¬ 
gain, we couldn’t go?” 

“I know it’s an extra cold night anyhow,” said Ludwig. 
* 1 Whew! I’m going home! ’ ’ 

Peter van Holp took out a bulgy gold watch, and holding 
it toward the moonlight as well as his benumbed fingers 
would permit, called out: 

‘ ‘ Hollo! it’s nearly eight o ’clock! Saint Nicholas is about 
by this time, and I, for one, want to see the little ones stare. 
Good-night!” 

“Good-night!” cried one and all,—and off they started, 
shouting, singing, and laughing as they flew along. 

Where were Gretel and Hans? 

Ah! how suddenly joy sometimes comes to an end! 

They had skated about an hour, keeping aloof from the 
others—quite contented with each other, and Gretel had 
exclaimed, “All, Hans, how beautiful! how fine! to think 
that we both have skates! I tell you the stork brought us 
good luck!”—when they heard something! 

It was a scream—a very faint scream! No one else upon 
the canal observed it, but Hans knew its meaning too well. 
Gretel saw him turn white in the moonlight as he hastily 
tore off his skates. 

“The father!” he cried, “he has frightened our mother!” 
and Gretel ran after him toward the house as rapidly as she 
could. 




THE FESTIVAL OF SAINT NICHOLAS 

We all know how, before the Christmas tree began to 
flourish in the home-life of our country, a certain “ right 
jolly old elf,” with 41 eight tiny reindeer,” used to drive his 
sleigh-load of toys up to our housetops, and then bound 
down the chimney to fill the stockings so hopefully hung by 
the fireplace. His friends called him Santa Claus, and 
those who were most intimate ventured to say “Old Nick.” 
It was said that he originally came from Holland. Doubt¬ 
less he did; but, if so, he certainly like many other foreign¬ 
ers changed his ways very much after landing upon our 
shores. In Holland, Saint Nicholas is a veritable saint, and 
often appears in full costume, with his embroidered robes, 
glittering with gems and gold, his mitre, his crozier and his 
jeweled gloves. Here Santa Claus comes rollicking along, 
on the twenty-fifth of December, our holy Christmas morn. 
But in Holland, Saint Nicholas visits earth on the fifth, a 
time especially appropriated to him. Early on the morn- 

63 




64 


Hans Brinker 


ing of the sixth, he distributes his candies, toys and treas¬ 
ures, then vanishes for a year. 

Christmas day is devoted by the Hollanders to church 
rites and pleasant family visiting. It is on Saint Nicholas’ 
Eve that their young people become half wild with joy and 
expectation. To some of them it is a sorry time, for the 
saint is very candid, and if any of them have been bad dur¬ 
ing the past year, he is quite sure to tell them so. Some¬ 
times he carries a birch rod under his arm and advises the 
parents to give them scoldings in place of confections, and 
floggings instead of toys. 

It was well that the boys hastened to their abodes on that 
bright winter evening, for in less than an hour afterward, 
the saint made his appearance in half the homes of Holland. 
He visited the king’s palace and in the selfsame moment 
appeared in Annie Bouman’s comfortable home. Probably 
one of our silver half dollars would have purchased all that 
his saintship left at the peasant Bouman’s; but a half- 
dollar’s worth will sometimes do for the poor what hun¬ 
dreds of dollars may fail to do for the rich; it makes them 
happy and grateful, fills them with new peace and love. 

Hilda van Gleck’s little brothers and sisters were in a 
high state of excitement that night. They had been admit¬ 
ted into the grand parlor; they were dressed in their best, 
and had been given two cakes apiece at supper. Hilda was 
as joyous as any. Why not? Saint Nicholas would never 
cross a girl of fourteen from his list, just because she was 
tall and looked almost like a woman. On the contrary, he 
would probably exert himself to do honor to such an august 
looking damsel. Who could tell? So she sported and 
laughed and danced as gaily as the youngest, and was the 
soul of all their merry games. Father, mother and grand¬ 
mother looked on approvingly; so did grandfather, before 
he spread his large red handkerchief over his face, leaving 



The Festival of Saint Nicholas 


65 


only the top of his skullcap visible. This handkerchief was 
his ensign of sleep. 

Earlier in the evening all had joined in the fun. In the 
general hilarity, there had seemed to be a difference only 
in bulk between grandfather and the baby. Indeed a shade 
of solemn expectation now and then flitting across the faces 
of the younger members, had made them seem rather more 
thoughtful than their elders. 

Now the spirit of fun reigned supreme. The very flames 
danced and capered in the polished grate. A pair of prim 
candles that had been staring at the Astral lamp began to 
wink at other candles far away in the mirrors. There was 
a long bell-rope suspended from the ceiling in the comer, 
made of glass beads netted over a cord nearly as thick as 
your wrist. It generally hung in the shadow and made no 
sign; but to-night it twinkled from end to end. Its handle 
of crimson glass sent reckless dashes of red at the papered 
wall turning its dainty blue stripes into purple. Passers-by 
halted to catch the merry laughter floating, through curtain 
and sash, into the street, then skipped on their way with a 
startled consciousness that the village was wide awake. At 
last matters grew so uproarious that the grandsire’s red 
kerchief came down from his face with a jerk. What 
decent old gentleman could sleep in such a racket! Mynheer 
Van Gleck regarded his children with astonishment. The 
baby even showed symptoms of hysterics. It was high time 
to attend to business. Madame suggested that if they 
wished to see the good Saint Nicholas, they should sing the 
same loving invitation that had brought him the year 
before. 

The baby stared and thrust his fist into his mouth as 
Mynheer put him down upon the floor. Soon he sat erect, 
and looked with a sweet scowl at the company. With his 
lace and embroideries, and his crown of blue ribbon and 



66 


Hans Brinker 


whalebone (for he was not quite past the tumbling age) he 
looked like the king of the babies. 

The other children, each holding a pretty willow basket, 
formed at once in a ring, and moved slowly around the little 
fellow, lifting their eyes, meanwhile, for the saint to whom 
they were about to address themselves was yet in mys¬ 
terious quarters. 

Madame commenced playing softly upon the piano; soon 
the voices rose—gentle youthful voices—rendered all the 
sweeter for their tremor: 

“Welcome, friend! Saint Nicholas, welcome! 

Bring no rod for us, to-night! 

While our voices bid thee, welcome, 

Every heart with joy is light! 

Tell us every fault and failing, 

We will bear thy keenest railing, 

So we sing—so we sing— 

Thou shalt tell us everything! 

Welcome, friend! Saint Nicholas, welcome! 

Welcome to this merry band! 

Happy children greet thee, welcome! 

Thou art glad ’ning all the land! 

Fill each empty hand and basket, 

’Tis thy little ones who ask it, 

So we sing—so we sing— 

Thou wilt bring us everything! ’ * 

During the chorus, sundry glances, half in eagerness, half 
in dread, had been cast toward the polished folding doors. 
Now a loud knocking was heard. The circle was broken in 
an instant. Some of the little ones, with a strange mixture 
of fear and delight, pressed against their mother’s knee. 
Grandfather bent forward, with his chin resting upon his 
hand; grandmother lifted her spectacles; Mynheer van 
Gleck, seated by the fireplace, slowly drew his meerschaum 
from his mouth, while Hilda and the other children settled 
themselves beside him in an expectant group. 



The Festival of Saint Nicholas 


67 


The knocking was heard again. 

“Come in,” said Madame, softly. 

The door slowly opened, and Saint Nicholas, in full 
array, stood before them. You could have heard a pin 
drop! 

Soon he spoke. What a mysterious majesty in his voice! 
what kindliness in his tones! 

‘‘Karel van Gleck, I am pleased to greet thee, and thy 
honored vrouw Kathrine, and thy son and his good vrouw 
Annie! 

“Children, I greet ye all! Hendrick, Hilda, Broom, 
Katy, Huygens, and Lucretia! And thy cousins, Wolfert, 
Diedrich, Mayken, Voost, and Katrina! Good children ye 
have been, in the main, since I last accosted ye. Diedrich 
was rude at the Haarlem fair last fall, but he has tried to 
atone for it since. Mayken has failed of late in her lessons, 
and too many sweets and trifles have gone to her lips, and 
too few stivers to her charity-box. Diedrich, I trust, will 
be a polite, manly boy for the future, and Mayken will 
endeavor to shine as a student. Let her remember, too, that 
economy and thrift are needed in the foundation of a 
worthy and generous life. Little Katy has been cruel to the 
cat more than once. Saint Nicholas can hear the cat cry 
when its tail is pulled. I will forgive her if she will remem¬ 
ber from this hour that the smallest dumb creatures have 
feeling and must not be abused.” 

As Katy burst into a frightened cry, the saint graciously 
remained silent until she was soothed. 

“Master Broom,” he resumed, “I warn thee that boys 
who are in the habit of putting snuff upon the foot-stove 
of the school mistress may one day be discovered and 
receive a flogging-” 

[Master Broom colored and stared in great astonish¬ 
ment.] 



68 


Hans Brinker 


“But thou art such an excellent scholar, I shall make thee 
no further reproof. 

“ Thou, Hendrick, didst distinguish thyself in the archery 
match last spring, and hit the Doel , 1 though the bird was 
swung before it to unsteady thine eye. I give thee credit 
for excelling in manly sport and exercise—though I must 
not unduly countenance thy boat-racing since it leaves thee 
too little time for thy proper studies. 

“Lucretia and Hilda shall have a blessed sleep tonight. 
The consciousness of kindness to the poor, devotion in their 
souls, and cheerful, hearty obedience to household rule will 
render them happy. 

“With one and all I avow myself well content. Good¬ 
ness, industry, benevolence and thrift have prevailed in 
your midst. Therefore, my blessing upon you—and may 
the New Year find all treading the paths of obedience, wis¬ 
dom and love. To-morrow you shall find more substantial 
proofs that I have been in your midst. Farewell!” 

With these words came a great shower of sugar-plums, 
upon a linen sheet spread out in front of the doors. A gen¬ 
eral scramble followed. The children fairly tumbled over 
each other in their eagerness to fill their baskets. Madame 
cautiously held the baby down in their midst, till the chubby 
little fists were filled. Then the bravest of the youngsters 
sprang up and burst open the closed doors—in vain they 
peered into the mysterious apartment—Saint Nicholas was 
nowhere to be seen. 

Soon there was a general rush to another room, where 
stood a table, covered with the finest and whitest of linen 
damask. Each child, in a flutter of excitement, laid a shoe 
upon it. The door was then carefully locked, and its key 
hidden in the mother’s bedroom. Next followed good-night 
kisses, a grand family-procession to the upper floor, merry 


(1) Bull's-Eye. 




The Festival of Saint Nicholas 


69 


farewells at bedroom doors—and silence, at last, reigned 
in the Yan Gleck mansion. 

Early the next morning, the door was solemnly unlocked 
and opened in the presence of the assembled household, 
when lo! a sight appeared proving Saint Nicholas to be a 
saint of his word! 

Every shoe was filled to overflowing, and beside each 
stood many a colored pile. The table was heavy with its load 
of presents—candies, toys, trinkets, books and other 
articles. Every one had gifts, from grandfather down to 
the baby. 

Little Katy clapped her hands with glee, and vowed, 
inwardly, that the cat should never know another moment’s 
grief. 

Hendrick capered about the room, flourishing a superb 
bow and arrows over his head. Hilda laughed with delight 
as she opened a crimson box and drew forth its glittering 
contents. The rest chuckled and said “Oh!” and “Ah!” 
over their treasures, very much as we did here in America 
on last Christmas day. 

With her glittering necklace in her hands, and a pile of 
books in her arms, Hilda stole toward her parents and held 
up her beaming face for a kiss. There was such an earnest, 
tender look in her bright eyes that her mother breathed a 
blessing as she leaned over her. 

“I am delighted with this book, thank you, father,” she 
said, touching the top one with her chin. “I shall read it 
all day long.” 

“Aye, sweetheart,” said Mynheer, “you cannot do better. 
There is no one like Father Cats. If my daughter learns his 
‘Moral Emblems’ by heart, the mother and I may keep 
silent. The work you have there is the Emblems—his best 
work. You will find it enriched with rare engravings from 
Van de Venne.” 



70 


Hans Brinker 


[Considering that the back of the book was turned away, 
Mynheer certainly showed a surprising familiarity with 
an unopened volume, presented by Saint Nicholas. It was 
strange, too, that the saint should have found certain 
things made by the elder children, and had actually placed 
them upon the table, labeled with parents’ and grand¬ 
parents’ names. But all were too much absorbed in happi¬ 
ness to notice slight inconsistencies. Hilda saw, on her 
father’s face, the rapt expression he always wore when he 
spoke of Jacob Cats, so she put her armful of books upon 
the table and resigned herself to listen.] 

“Old Father Cats, my child, was a great poet, not a 
writer of plays like the Englishman, Shakespeare, who 
lived in his time. I have read them in the German and very 
good they are—very, very good—but not like Father Cats. 
Cats sees no daggers in the air; he has no white women fall¬ 
ing in love with dusky Moors; no young fools sighing to be 
a lady’s glove; no crazy princes mistaking respectable old 
gentlemen for rats. No, no. He writes only sense. It is 
great wisdom in little bundles, a bundle for every day of 
your life. You can guide a state with Cats’ poems, and you 
can put a little baby to sleep with his pretty songs. He was 
one of the greatest men of Holland. When I take you to 
the Hague I will show you the Kloosterkerk where he lies 
buried. There was a man for you to study, my sons! he 
was good through and through. What did he say? 

‘ 4 4 Oh, Lord, let me obtain this from Thee 

To live with patience, and to die with pleasure !’ 1 

“Did patience mean folding his hands? No, he was a 
lawyer, statesman, ambassador, farmer, philosopher, his¬ 
torian, and poet. He was keeper of the Great Seal of Hol¬ 
land ! He was a—Bah! there is too much noise here, I can¬ 
not talk.” And Mynheer, looking with astonishment into 


(1) O Heere! laat my dat van uwen hand verwerven, 
Te leven met gedult, en met vermaak te sterven. 




The Festival of Saint Nicholas 


71 


the bowl of his meerschaum—for it had “gone out”— 
nodded to his vrouw and left the apartment in great haste. 

The fact is, his discourse had been accompanied through¬ 
out with a subdued chorus of barking dogs, squeaking cats 
and bleating lambs, to say nothing of a noisy ivory cricket, 
that the baby was whirling with infinite delight. At the 
last, little Huygens taking advantage of the increasing 
loudness of Mynheer’s tones, had ventured a blast on his 
new trumpet, and Wolfert had hastily attempted an accom¬ 
paniment on the drum. This had brought matters to a 
crisis, and well for the little creatures that it had. The saint 
had left no ticket for them to attend a lecture on Jacob Cats. 
It was not an appointed part of the ceremonies. Therefore 
when the youngsters saw that the mother looked neither 
frightened nor offended, they gathered new courage. The 
grand chorus rose triumphant, and frolic and joy reigned 
supreme. 

Good Saint Nicholas! For the sake of the young Hol¬ 
landers, I, for one, am willing to acknowledge him, and 
defend his reality against all unbelievers. 

Carl Schummel was quite busy during that day, assuring 
little children, confidentially, that not Saint Nicholas, but 
their own fathers and mothers had produced the oracle and 
loaded the tables. But we know better than that. 

And yet if this were a saint, why did he not visit the 
Brinker cottage that night? Why was that one home, so 
dark and sorrowful, passed by? 




WHAT THE BOYS SAW AND DID IN AMSTERDAM 

“Are we all here?” cried Peter, in high glee, as the party 
assembled upon the canal early the next morning, equipped 
for their skating journey. “Let me see. As Jacob has 

made me captain, I must call the roll. Carl Schummel- 

You here?” 

“Ya!” 

“Jacob Poot!” 

“Ya!” 

“Benjamin Dobbs!” 

“Ya-a!” 

“Lambert van Mounen!” 

“Ya!” 

“That’s lucky! Couldn’t get on without you, as you’re 
the only one who can speak English. Ludwig van Holp!” 

“Ya!” 

“ Voostenwalbert Schimmelpenninck!” 

No answer. 


72 




























What the Boys Saw and Did in Amsterdam 


73 


“Ah! the little rogue has been kept at home. Now, boys, 
it’s just eight o’clock—glorious weather, and the Y is as 
firm as a rock—we’ll be at Amsterdam in thirty minutes. 
One, Two, Three, start!” 

True enough, in less than half an hour they had crossed 
a dyke of solid masonry, and were in the very heart of the 
great metropolis of the Netherlands—a walled city of 
ninety-five islands and nearly two hundred bridges. 
Although Ben had been there twice since his arrival in 
Holland, he saw much to excite wonder; but his Dutch com¬ 
rades, having lived near by all their lives, considered it the 
most matter-of-course place in the world. Everything 
interested Ben; the tall houses with their forked chimneys 
and gable ends facing the street; the merchants’ warerooms, 
perched high up under the roofs of their dwellings, with 
long, arm-like cranes- hoisting and lowering goods past the 
household windows; the grand public buildings erected 
upon wooden piles driven deep into the marshy ground; the 
narrow streets; the canals everywhere crossing the city; the 
bridges; the locks; the various costumes, and, strangest of 
all, shops and dwellings crouching close to the fronts of the 
churches, sending their long, disproportionate chimneys far 
upward along the sacred walls. 

If he looked up, he saw tall, leaning houses, seeming to 
pierce the sky with their shining roofs; if he looked down, 
there was the queer street, without crossing or curb—noth¬ 
ing to separate the cobblestone pavement from the foot¬ 
path of brick—and if he rested his eyes half-way, he saw 
complicated little mirrors [spionnen] fastened upon the 
outside of nearly every window, so arranged that the 
inmates of the houses could observe all that was going on in 
the street, or inspect whoever might be knocking at the 
door, without being seen themselves. 

Sometimes a dog-cart, heaped with wooden ware, passed 
him; then a donkey bearing a pair of panniers filled with 



74 


Hans Brinker 


crockery or glass; then a sled driven over the bare cobble¬ 
stones (the runners kept greased with a dripping oil rag 
so that it might run easily) ; and then, perhaps, a showy, but 
clumsy family-carriage, drawn by the brownest of Flanders 
horses, swinging the whitest of snowy tails. 

The city was in full festival array. Every shop was gor¬ 
geous in honor of Saint Nicholas. Captain Peter was 
forced, more than once, to order his men away from the 
tempting show-windows, where everything that is, has been, 
or can be thought of in the way of toys was displayed. Hol¬ 
land is famous for this branch of manufacture. Every 
possible thing is copied in miniature for the benefit of the 
little ones; the intricate mechanical toys that a Dutch 
youngster tumbles about in stolid unconcern would create 
a stir in our Patent Office. Ben laughed outright at some 
of the mimic fishing boats. They were so heavy and stumpy, 
so like the queer craft that he had seen about Rotterdam. 
The tiny trekschuiten, however, only a foot or two long, and 
fitted out, complete, made his heart ache—he so longed to 
buy one at once for his little brother in England. He had 
no money to spare, for with true Dutch prudence, the party 
had agreed to take with them merely the sum required for 
each boy’s expenses, and to consign the purse to Peter for 
safekeeping. Consequently Master Ben concluded to devote 
all his energies to sightseeing, and to think as seldom as 
possible of little Robby. 

He made a hasty call at the Marine School and envied the 
sailor students their full-rigged brig and their sleeping- 
berths swung over their trunks or lockers; he peeped into 
the Jews’ Quarter of the city, where the rich diamond cut¬ 
ters and squalid old-clothes men dwell, and wisely resolved 
to keep away from it; he also enjoyed hasty glimpses of the 
four principal avenues of Amsterdam—the Prinsen Gracht, 
Keizers Gracht, Heeren Gracht and Singel. These are semi¬ 
circular in form, and the first three average more than two 



What the Boys Saw and Did in Amsterdam 


75 


miles in length. A canal runs through the centre of each, 
with a well-paved road on either side, lined with stately 
buildings. Rows of naked elms, bordering the canal, cast 
a network of shadows over its frozen surface; and every¬ 
thing was so clean and bright that Ben told Lambert it 
seemed to him like petrified neatness. 

Fortunately the weather was cold enough to put a stop 
to the usual street-flooding, and window-washing, or our 
young excursionists might have been drenched more than 
once. Sweeping, mopping and scrubbing form a passion 
with Dutch housewives, and to soil their spotless mansions 
is considered scarcely less than a crime. Everywhere a 
hearty contempt is felt for those who neglect to rub the soles 
of their shoes to a polish before crossing the door-sill; and, 
in certain places, visitors are expected to remove their 
heavy shoes before entering. 

Sir William Temple, in his Memoirs of “ What passed in 
Christendom from 1672 to 1679/ ’ tells a story of a pompous 
magistrate going to visit a lady of Amsterdam. A stout 
Holland lass opened the door, and told him in a breath that 
the lady was at home and that his shoes were not very clean. 
Without another word, she took the astonished man up by 
both arms, threw him across her back, carried him through 
two rooms, set him down at the bottom of the stairs, seized 
a pair of slippers that stood there and put them upon his 
feet. Then, and not until then, she spoke, telling him that 
her mistress was on the floor above, and that he might 
go up. 

While Ben was skating, with his friends, upon the 
crowded canals of the city, he found it difficult to believe 
that the sleepy Dutchmen he saw around him, smoking their 
pipes so leisurely, and looking as though their hats might 
be knocked off their heads without their making any resist¬ 
ance, were capable of those outbreaks that had taken place 
in Holland—that they were really fellow-countrymen of 



76 


Hans Brinker 


the brave, devoted heroes of whom he had read in Dutch 
history. 

As his party skimmed lightly along he told Van Mounen 
of a burial-riot which in 1696 had occurred in that very city, 
where the women and children turned out, as well as the 
men, and formed mock funeral processions through the 
town, to show the burgomasters that certain new regula¬ 
tions, with regard to burying the dead, would not be acceded 
to—how at last they grew so unmanageable, and threatened 
so much damage to the city that the burgomasters were glad 
to recall the offensive law. 

“There’s the corner,” said Jacob, pointing to some large 
buildings, “where, about fifteen years ago, the great corn- 
houses sank down in the mud. They were strong affairs, 
and set up on good piles, but they had over seventy thou¬ 
sand hundred-weight of corn in them; and that was too 
much.” 

It was a long story for Jacob to tell and he stopped to 
rest. 

“How do you know there were seventy thousand hun¬ 
dred-weight in them?” asked Carl sharply—“you were in 
your swaddling clothes then.” 

“My father knows all about it,” was Jacob’s suggestive 
reply. Rousing himself with an effort, he continued—‘ ‘ Ben 
likes pictures. Show him some.” 

“All right,” said the captain. 

“If we had time, Benjamin,” said Lambert van Mounen 
in English, “I should like to take you to the City Hall or 
Stadhuis. There are building-piles for you! It is built 
on nearly fourteen thousand of them, driven seventy feet 
into the ground. But what I wish you to see there is the 
big picture of Van Speyk blowing up his ship—great 
picture.” 

“Van whoV 9 asked Ben. 



What the Boys Saw and Did in Amsterdam 


77 


“Van Speyk. Don’t you remember 1 ? He was in the 
height of an engagement with the Belgians, and when he 
found that they had the better of him and would capture 
his ship, he blew it up, and himself too, rather than yield 
to the enemy.” 

“Wasn’t that Van Tromp 1 ?” 

“Oh, no. Van Tromp was another brave fellow. They’ve 
a monument to him down at Delft Haven—the place where 
the Pilgrims took ship for America.” 

“Well, what about Van Tromp? He was a great Dutch 
Admiral, wasn’t he?” 

“Yes, he was in more than thirty sea-fights. He beat 
the Spanish fleet and an English one, and then fastened a 
broom to his masthead to show that he had swept the 
English from the sea. Takes the Dutch to beat, my boy!” 

“Hold up!” cried Ben, “broom or no broom, the English 
conquered him at last. I remember all about it now. He 
was killed somewhere on the Dutch coast, in an engage¬ 
ment in which the British fleet was victorious. Too bad,” 
he added maliciously, “wasn’t it?” 

“Ahem! where are we?” exclaimed Lambert changing 
the subject. “Hollo! the others are way ahead of us—all 
but Jacob. Whew! how fat he is! He’ll break down before 
we’re half-way.” 

Ben of course enjoyed skating beside Lambert, who 
though a staunch Hollander, had been educated near 
London, and could speak English as fluently as Dutch; but 
he was not sorry when Captain van Holp called out: 

“Skates off! There’s the Museum!” 

It was open, and there was no charge on that day for 
admission. In they went, shuffling, as boys will, when they 
have a chance, just to hear the sound of their shoes on the 
polished floor. 

This Museum is in fact a picture gallery where some of 



78 


Hans Brinker 


the finest works of the Dutch masters are to be seen, beside 
nearly two hundred portfolios of rare engravings. 

Ben noticed, at once, that some of the pictures were hung 
on panels fastened to the wall with hinges. These could be 
swung forward like a window-shutter, thus enabling the 
subject to be seen in the best light. The plan served them 
well in viewing a small group by Gerard Douw, called the 
“Evening School,” enabling them to observe its exquisite 
finish and the wonderful way in which the picture seemed 
to be lit through its own windows. Peter pointed out the 
beauties of another picture by Douw, called “The Hermit,” 
and he also told them some interesting anecdotes of the 
artist, who was born at Leyden in 1613. 

“Three days painting a broom handle!” echoed Carl in 
astonishment, while the captain was giving some instances 
of Douw’s extreme slowness of execution. 

“Yes, sir; three days. And it is said that he spent five in 
finishing one hand in a lady’s portrait. You see how very 
bright and minute everything is in this picture. His unfin¬ 
ished works were kept carefully covered, and his painting 
materials were put away in air-tight boxes as soon as he 
had finished using them for the day. According to all 
accounts, the studio itself must have been as close as a band- 
box. The artist always entered it on tiptoe, besides sitting 
still, before he commenced work, until the slight dust caused 
by his entrance had settled. I have read somewhere that his 
paintings are improved by being viewed through a magni¬ 
fying glass. He strained his eyes so badly with this extra 
finishing, that he was forced to wear spectacles before he 
was thirty. At forty he could scarcely see to paint, and he 
couldn’t find a pair of glasses anywhere that would help his 
sight. At last, a poor old German woman asked him to try 
hers. They suited him exactly, and enabled him to go on 
painting as well as ever.” 



What the Boys Saw and Did in Amsterdam 


79 


“ Humph!” exclaimed Ludwig, indignantly, “that was 
high! What did she do without them, I wonder?” 

“Oh,” said Peter, laughing, “likely she had another pair. 
At any rate she insisted upon his taking them. He was so 
grateful that he painted a picture of the spectacles for her, 
case and all, and she sold it to a burgomaster for a yearly 
allowance that made her comfortable for the rest of her 
days.” 

“Boys!” called Lambert, in a loud whisper, “come look 
at this Bear Hunt.” 

It was a fine painting by Paul Potter, a Hutch artist of 
the seventeenth century, who produced excellent works 
before he was sixteen years old. The boys admired it 
because the subject pleased them. They passed carelessly 
by the masterpieces of Rembrandt and Van der Heist, and 
went into raptures over an ugly picture by Van der Venne, 
representing a sea-fight between the Hutch and English. 
They also stood spellbound before a painting of two little 
urchins, one of whom was taking soup and the other eating 
an egg. The principal merit in this work was that the 
young egg-eater had kindly slobbered his face with the yolk 
for their entertainment. 

An excellent representation of the “Feast of Saint 
Nicholas” next had the honor of attracting them. 

“Look, Van Mounen,” said Ben to Lambert, “could any¬ 
thing be better than this youngster’s face? He looks as if 
he knows he deserves a whipping but hopes Saint Nicholas 
may not have found him out. That’s the kind of painting 
I like; something that tells a story.” 

“Come, boys!” cried the captain, “ten o’clock, time we 
were off!” 

They hastened to the canal. 

“Skates on! Are you ready? One, two —hollo! where’s 
Poot?” 

Sure enough where was Poot? 



80 


Hans Brinker 


A square opening had just been cut in the ice not ten 
yards off. Peter observed it, and without a word skated 
rapidly toward it. 

All the others followed, of course. 

Peter looked in. They all looked in; then stared 
anxiously at each other. 

“Poot!” screamed Peter, peering into the hole again. All 
was still. The black water gave no sign; it was already 
glazing on top. 

Van Mounen turned mysteriously to Ben. 

“Didn’t he have a Jit once ?” 

“My goodness! yes!” answered Ben, in a great fright. 

“Then, depend upon it, he’s been taken with one in the 
Museum!” 

The boys caught his meaning. Every skate was off in a 
twinkling. Peter had the presence of mind to scoop up a 
cap-full of water from the hole, and off they scampered to 
the rescue. 

Alas! They did indeed find poor Jacob in a fit—but it 
was a fit of sleepiness. There he lay in a recess of the gal¬ 
lery, snoring like a trooper! The chorus of laughter that 
followed this discovery brought an angry official to the spot. 

“What now! None of this racket! Here, you beer- 
barrel, wake up!” and Master Jacob received a very uncere¬ 
monious shaking. 

As soon as Peter saw that Jacob’s condition was not 
serious, he hastened to the street to empty his unfortunate 
cap. While he was stuffing his handkerchief to prevent the 
already frozen crown from touching his head, the rest of the 
boys came down, dragging the bewildered and indignant 
Jacob in their midst. 

The order to start was again given. Master Poot was 
wide awake at last. The ice was a little rough and broken 
just there, but every boy was in high spirits. 



What the Boys Saw and Did in Amsterdam 


81 


“‘Shall we go on by the canal or the river?” asked Peter. 

“Oh, the river, by all means,” said Carl. “It will be 
such fun; they say it is perfect skating all the way, but it’s 
much farther.” 

Jacob Poot instantly became interested. 

“I vote for the canal!” he cried. 

“Well, the canal it shall be,” responded the captain, “if 
all are agreed.” 

“Agreed!” they echoed, in rather a disappointed tone— 
and Captain Peter led the way. 

“All right—come on—we can reach Haarlem in an 
hour!” 




BIG MANIAS AND LITTLE ODDITIES 

While skating along at full speed, they heard the ears 
from Amsterdam coming close behind them. 

“Hollo!” cried Ludwig, glancing toward the railtrack— 
“who can’t beat a locomotive? Let’s give it a race!” 

The whistle screamed at the very idea—so did the boys— 
and at it they went. 

For an instant the boys were ahead, hurrahing with all 
their might—only for an instant, but even that was some¬ 
thing. 

This excitement over, they began to travel more leisurely, 
and indulge in conversation and frolic. Sometimes they 
stopped to exchange a word with the guards who were sta¬ 
tioned at certain distances along the canal. These men, in 
winter, attend to keeping the surface free from obstruc¬ 
tion and garbage. After a snow-storm they are expected to 

82 






Big Manias and Little Oddities 


83 


sweep the feathery covering away before it hardens into a 
marble pretty to look at but very unwelcome to skaters. 
Now and then the boys so far forgot their dignity as to 
clamber among the ice-bound canal-boats crowded together 
in a widened harbor off the canal, but the watchful guards 
would soon spy them out and order them down with a 
growl. 

Nothing could be straighter than the canal upon which 
our party were skating, and nothing straighter than the 
long rows of willow trees that stood, bare and wispy, along 
the bank. On the opposite side, lifted high above the sur¬ 
rounding country, lay the carriage road on top of the great 
dyke built to keep the Haarlem Lake within bounds; 
stretching out far in the distance until it became lost in a 
point, was the glassy canal with its many skaters, its brown¬ 
winged ice-boats, its push-chairs and its queer little sleds, 
light as cork, flying over the ice by means of iron-pronged 
sticks in the hands of the riders. Ben was in ecstasy with 
the scene. 

Ludwig van Holp had been thinking how strange it was 
that the English boy should know so much of Holland. 
According to Lambert’s account he knew more about it than 
the Dutch did. This did not quite please our young Hol¬ 
lander. Suddenly he thought of something that he believed 
would make the “Shon Pull” open his eyes; he drew near 
Lambert with a triumphant: 

“Tell him about the tulips!” 

Ben caught the word “tulpen.” 

“Oh! yes,” said he eagerly, in English, “the Tulip Mania 
—are you speaking of that? I have often heard it men¬ 
tioned, but know very little about it. It reached its height 
in Amsterdam, didn’t it?” 

Ludwig moaned; the words were hard to understand, but 
there was no mistaking the enlightened expression on Ben’s 



84 


Hans Brinker 


face; Lambert, happily, was quite unconscious of his young 
countryman’s distress as he replied: 

“Yes, here and in Haarlem, principally; but the excite¬ 
ment ran high all over Holland, and in England too for 
that matter.” 

“Hardly in England, 1 I think,” said Ben, “but I am not 
sure, as I was not there at the time.” 

“Ha! ha! that’s true, unless you are over two hundred 
years old. Well, I tell you, sir, there was never anything 
like it before nor since. Why, persons were so crazy after 
tulip bulbs in those days, that they paid their weight in gold 
for them.” 

“What, the weight of a man?” cried Ben, showing such 
astonishment in his eyes, that Ludwig fairly capered. 

“No, no, the weight of a bulb. The first tulip was sent 
here from Constantinople about the year 1560. It was so 
much admired that the rich people of Amsterdam sent to 
Turkey for more. From that time they grew to be the rage, 
and it lasted for years. Single roots brought from one to 
four thousand florins; and one bulb, the Semper Augustus, 
brought fifty-five hundred.” 

(1) Although the Tulip Mania did not prevail in England as in Holland, the 
flower soon became an object of speculation and brought very large prices. In 
1636, tulips were publicly sold on the Exchange of London. Even as late as 1800, 
a common price was fifteen guineas for one bulb. Ben did not know that in his 
own day a single tulip plant, called the “ Fanny Kemble,” had been sold in 
London for more than 70 guineas. 

Mr. Mackay in his “ Memoirs of Popular Delusions” tells a funny story of an 
English botanist who happened to see a tulip bulb lying in the conservatory of a 
wealthy Dutchman. Ignorant of its value, he took out his penknife and, cutting 
the bulb in two, became very much interested in his investigations. Suddenly the 
owner appeared, and pouncing furiously upon him, asked him if he knew what he 
was doing. “Peeling a most extraordinary onion,” replied the philosopher. 
“Hundert tousant tuyvel! ” shouted the Dutchman, “it's an Admiral Vander 
EykI ” “Thank you,” replied the traveler, immediately writing the name in his 
note book; “pray are these very common in your country?” “Death and the 
tuyvelscreamed the Dutchman, “come before the Syndic and you shall see!” 
In spite of his struggles the poor investigator, followed by an indignant mob, was 
taken through the streets to a magistrate. Soon he learned to his dismay that he 
had destroyed a bulb worth 4,000 florins ($1,600). He was lodged in prison until 
securities could be procured for the payment of the sum. 




Big Manias and Little Oddities 


85 


“That’s more than four hundred guineas of our money,’’ 
interposed Ben. 

“ Yes, and I know I’m right, for I read it in a translation 
from Beckman, only day before yesterday. Well, sir, it 
was great. Every one speculated in tulips, even the barge¬ 
men and rag-women, and chimney-sweeps. The richest 
merchants were not ashamed to share the excitement. 
People bought bulbs and sold them again at a tremendous 
profit without ever seeing them. It grew into a kind of 
gambling. Some became rich by it in a few days, and some 
lost everything they had. Land, houses, cattle and even 
clothing went for tulips when people had no ready money. 
Ladies sold their jewels and finery to enable them to join in 
the fun. Nothing else was thought of. At last the States- 
general interfered. People began to see what geese they 
were making of themselves, and down went the price of 
tulips. Old tulip debts couldn’t be collected. Creditors 
went to law, and the law turned its back upon them; debts 
made in gambling were not binding, it said. Then, there 
was a time! Thousands of rich speculators reduced to 
beggary in an hour. As old Beckman says, 4 the bubble was 
burst at last.’ ” 

“Yes, and a big bubble it was,” said Ben, who had 
listened with great interest. “By the way, did you know 
that the name Tulip came from a Turkish word, signifying 
turban?” 

“I had forgotten that,” answered Lambert, “but it’s a 
capital idea. Just fancy a party of Turks in full headgear, 
squatted upon a lawn—perfect tulip bed! Ha! ha! capital 
idea!” 

[“There,” groaned Ludwig to himself, “he’s been tell¬ 
ing Lambert something wonderful about tulips—I knew 
it!”] 

“The fact is,” continued Lambert, “you can conjure up 
quite a human picture out of a tulip bed in bloom, especially 



86 


Hans Brinker 


when it is nodding and bobbing in the wind. Did you ever 
notice it?” 

“Not I. It strikes me, Van Mounen, that you Hollanders 
are prodigiously fond of the flower to this day.” 

“Certainly. You can’t have a garden without them— 
prettiest flower that grows, I think. My uncle has a mag¬ 
nificent bed of the finest varieties at his summer-house on 
the other side of Amsterdam.” 

“I thought your uncle lived in the city?” 

“So he does; but his summer-house, or pavilion, is a few 
miles off. He has another one built out over the river. We 
passed near it when we entered the city. Everybody in 
Amsterdam has a pavilion somewhere, if he can.” 

“Do they ever live there?” asked Ben. 

“Bless you, no! They are small affairs, suitable only to 
spend a few hours in on summer afternoons. There are 
some beautiful ones on the southern end of the Haarlem 
Lake—now that they’ve commenced to drain it into 
polders, it will spoil that fun. By the way, we’ve passed 
some red-roofed ones since we left home. You noticed 
them, I suppose, with their little bridges, and ponds and 
gardens, and their mottoes over the doorway.” 

Ben nodded. 

“They make but little show, now, continued Lambert, 
“but in warm weather they are delightful. After the 
willows sprout, uncle goes to his summer-house every after¬ 
noon. He dozes and smokes; aunt knits, with her feet 
perched upon a foot-stove, never mind how hot the day; 
my cousin Rika and the other girls fish in the lake from 
the windows, or chat with their friends rowing by; and the 
youngsters tumble about, or hang upon the little bridges 
over the ditch. Then they have coffee and cakes; besides a 
great bunch of water-lilies on the table—it’s very fine, I 
can tell you; only (between ourselves) though I was born 
here, I shall never fancy the odor of stagnant water that 



Big Manias and Little Oddities 


87 


hangs about most of the summer-houses. Nearly every one 
you see is built over a ditch. Probably I feel it more, from 
having lived so long in England.” 

“Perhaps I shall notice it, too,” said Ben, “if a thaw 
comes. This early winter has covered up the fragrant 
waters for my benefit—much obliged to it. Holland with¬ 
out this glorious skating wouldn’t be the same thing to 
me at all. ’ ’ 

“How very different you are from the Poots!” exclaimed 
Lambert, who had been listening in a sort of brown study, 
“and yet you are cousins—I cannot understand it.” 

“We are cousins, or rather we have always considered 
ourselves such, but the relationship is not very close. Our 
grandmothers were half-sisters. My side of the family is 
entirely English, while his is entirely Dutch. Old Great¬ 
grandfather Poot married twice, you see, and I am a 
descendant of his English wife. I like Jacob, though, better 
than half of my English cousins put together. He is the 
truest-hearted, best-natured boy I ever knew. Strange as 
you may think it, my father became accidentally acquainted 
with Jacob’s father while on a business visit to Rotterdam. 
They soon talked over their relationship—in French, by the 
way—and they have corresponded in that language ever 
since. Queer things come about in this world. My sister 
Jenny would open her eyes at some of Aunt Poot’s ways. 
Aunt is a thorough lady, but so different from mother— 
and the house, too, and furniture, and way of living, every¬ 
thing is different.” 

“Of course,” assented Lambert, complacently, as if to 
say, “you could scarcely expect such general perfection 
anywhere else than in Holland”; “but you will have all the 
more to tell Jenny when you go back.” 

“Yes, indeed. I can say one thing—if cleanliness is, as 
they claim, next to godliness, Broek is safe. It is the clean¬ 
est place I ever saw in my life. Why, my Aunt Poot, rich 



88 


Hans Brinker 


as she is, scrubs half the time, and her house looks as if it 
were varnished all over. I wrote to mother yesterday that 
I could see my double always with me, feet to feet, in the 
polished floor of the dining-room. ” 

“Your double! that word puzzles me; what do you 
mean?” 

“Oh, my reflection, my apparition. Ben Dobbs number 
two.” 

“Ah, I see,” exclaimed Van Mounen. “Have you ever 
been in your Aunt Poot’s grand parlor?” 

Ben laughed. “Only once, and that was on the day of 
my arrival. Jacob says I shall have no chance of entering 
it again until the time of his sister Kenau’s wedding, the 
week after Christmas. Father has consented that I shall 
remain to witness the great event. Every Saturday Aunt 
Poot, and her fat Kate, go into that parlor and sweep, 
and polish, and scrub; then it is darkened and closed until 
Saturday comes again; not a soul enters it in the meantime; 
but the schoonmaken, as she calls it, must be done, just the 
same.” 

“That is nothing. Every parlor in Broek meets with the 
same treatment,” said Lambert. “What do you think of 
these moving figures in her neighbor’s garden?” 

“Oh, they’re well enough; the swans must seem really 
alive gliding about the pond in summer; but that nodding 
Mandarin in the corner, under the chestnut trees, is ridic¬ 
ulous, only fit for children to laugh at. And then the stiff 
garden patches, and the trees all trimmed and painted. 
Excuse me, Van Mounen, but I shall never learn to admire 
Dutch taste.” 

“It will take time,” answered Lambert, condescendingly, 
“but you are sure to agree with it at last. I saw much to 
admire in England, and I hope I shall be sent back with 
you, to study at Oxford; but take everything together, I 
like Holland best.” 



Big Manias and Little Oddities 


89 


“Of course you do,” said Ben, in a tone of hearty 
approval, “you wouldn’t be a good Hollander if you didn’t. 
Nothing like loving one’s country. It is strange, though, to 
have such a warm feeling for such a cold place. If we were 
not exercising all the time we should freeze outright.” 

Lambert laughed. 

“That’s your English blood, Benjamin. I’m not cold. 
And look at the skaters here on the canal—they’re red as 
roses, and happy as lords. Hollo! good Captain van Holp,” 
called out Lambert in Dutch, “what say you to stopping at 
yonder farmhouse and warming our toes?” 

“Who is cold?” asked Peter, turning around. 

“Benjamin Dobbs.” 

“Benjamin Dobbs shall be warmed,” and the party was 
brought to a halt. 




ON THE WAY TO HAARLEM 

On approaching the door of the farmhouse the boys sud¬ 
denly found themselves in the midst of a lively domestic 
scene. A burly Dutchman came rushing out, closely fol¬ 
lowed by his dear vrouw, and she was beating him smartly 
with a long-handled warming-pan. The expression on her 
face gave our boys so little promise of a kind reception that 
they prudently resolved to carry their toes elsewhere to be 
warmed. 

The next cottage proved to be more inviting. Its low 
roof of bright red tiles extended over the cow-stable, that, 
clean as could be, nestled close to the main building. A 
neat, peaceful-looking old woman sat at one window, knit¬ 
ting. At the other could be discerned part of the profile of 
a fat figure that, pipe in mouth, sat behind the shining little 
panes and snowy curtain. In answer to Peter’s subdued 
knock, a fair-haired, rosy-cheeked lass in holiday attire 

90 










































On the Way to Haarlem 


91 


opened the upper half of the green door (which was divided 
across the middle) and inquired their errand. 

“May we enter and warm ourselves, jufvrouw?” asked 
the captain respectfully. 

“Yes, and welcome,” was the reply, as the lower half of 
the door swung softly toward its mate. Every boy before 
entering rubbed long and faithfully upon the rough mat, 
and each made his best bow to the old lady and gentleman at 
the windows. Ben was half inclined to think that these per¬ 
sonages were automata like the moving figures in the gar¬ 
den at Broek; for they both nodded their heads slowly, in 
precisely the same way, and both went on with their 
employment as steadily and stiffly as though they worked by 
machinery. The old man puffed! puffed and his vrouw 
clicked her knitting-needles, as if regulated by internal cog¬ 
wheels. Even the real smoke issuing from the motionless 
pipe, gave no convincing proof that they were human. 

But the rosy-cheeked maiden. Ah! how she bustled about. 
How she gave the boys polished high-backed chairs to sit 
upon, how she made the fire blaze up as if it were inspired, 
how she made Jacob Poot almost weep for joy by bringing 
forth a great square of gingerbread, and a stone jug of sour 
wine! How she laughed and nodded as the boys ate like 
wild animals on good behavior, and how blank she looked 
when Ben politely but firmly refused to take any black 
bread and sourkrout! How she pulled off Jacob’s mitten, 
which was torn at the thumb, and mended it before his eyes, 
biting off the thread with her white teeth, and saying, “Now 
it will be warmer,” as she bit; and finally, how she shook 
hands with every boy in turn and (throwing a deprecating 
glance at the female automaton) insisted upon filling their 
pockets with gingerbread! 

All this time the knitting-needles clicked on, and the pipe 
never missed a puff. 



92 


On the Way to Haarlem 


When the boys were fairly on their way again, they came 
in sight of Zwanenburg Castle with its massive stone front, 
and its gateway towers, each surmounted with a sculptured 
swan. 

“Halfweg, 1 boys,” said Peter, “off: with your skates.” 

“You see,” exclaimed Lambert to his companion, “the Y 
and the Haarlem Lake meeting here make it rather trouble¬ 
some. The river is five feet higher than the land—so we 
must have everything strong in the way of dykes and sluice¬ 
gates, or there would be wet work at once. The sluice 
arrangements here are supposed to be something extra—we 
will walk over them and you shall see enough to make you 
open your eyes. The spring water of the lake, they say, has 
the most wonderful bleaching powers of any in the world; 
all the great Haarlem bleacheries use it. I can’t say much 
upon that subject—but I can tell you one thing from per¬ 
sonal experience.” 

“What is that?” 

“Why, the lake is full of the biggest eels you ever saw— 
I’ve caught them here, often—perfectly prodigious! I tell 
you they’re sometimes a match for a fellow; they’d almost 
wriggle your arm from the socket if you were not on your 
guard. But you’re not interested in eels, I perceive. The 
castle’s a big affair. Isn’t it?” 

“Yes. What do those swans mean? Anything?” asked 
Ben, looking up at the stone gate-towers. 

“The swan is held almost in reverence by us Hollanders. 
These give the building its name, Zwanenburg—swan-castle. 
That is all I know. This is a very important spot; for it is 
here that the wise ones hold council with regard to dyke 
matters. The castle was once the residence of the cele¬ 
brated Christiaan Brunings.” 

“What about TfiimV’ asked Ben. 


(1) Half-way. 





* X ':f >:•. 




mmmM 

liiltt 

llili 








■» 


SHE MENDED IT BEFORE HIS EYES 


93 
































































94 


Hans Brinker 


“Peter could answer you better than I,” said Lambert, 
“if you could only understand each other, or were not such 
cowards about leaving your mother-tongues. But I have 
often heard my grandfather speak of Brunings. He is 
never tired of telling us of the great engineer—how good he 
was, and how learned, and how when he died the whole 
country seemed to mourn as for a friend. He belonged to a 
great many learned societies, and was at the head of the 
State Department intrusted with the care of the dykes, and 
other defences against the sea. There’s no counting the 
improvements he made in dykes and sluices and water¬ 
mills, and all that kind of thing. We Hollanders, you know, 
consider our great engineers as the highest of public bene¬ 
factors. Brunings died years ago; they’ve a monument to 
his memory in the cathedral of Haarlem. I have seen his 
portrait, and I tell you, Ben, he was right noble-looking. 
No wonder the castle looks so stiff and proud. It is some¬ 
thing to have given shelter to such a man!” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Ben. “I wonder, Van Mounen, 
whether you or I will ever give any old building a right to 
feel proud—Heigho! there’s a great deal to be done yet in 
this world and some of us who are boys now, will have to do 
it. Look to your shoe latchet, Van, it’s unfastened.” 




It was nearly one o’clock when Captain van Holp and his 
command entered the grand old city of Haarlem. They had 
skated nearly seventeen miles since morning, and were still 
as fresh as young eagles. From the youngest (Ludwig van 
Holp, who was just fourteen) to the eldest, no less a per¬ 
sonage than the captain himself, a veteran of seventeen, 
there was but one opinion—that this was the greatest frolic 
of their lives. To be sure, Jacob Poot had become rather 
short of breath, during the last mile or two, and perhaps he 
felt ready for another nap; but there was enough jollity in 
him yet for a dozen. Even Carl Schummel, who had become 
very intimate with Ludwig during the excursion, forgot to 
be ill-natured. As for Peter, he was the happiest of the 
happy, and had sung and whistled so joyously while skating 
that the staidest passers-by had smiled as they listened. 

“Come, boys! it’s nearly tiffin 1 hour,” he said, as they 


(1) Lunch. 


95 








96 


Hans Brinker 


neared a coffee-house on the main street. “We must have 
something more solid than the pretty maiden’s ginger¬ 
bread”—and the captain plunged his hands into his pockets 
as if to say, “There’s money enough here to feed an army!” 

“Hollo!” cried Lambert, “what ails the man?” 

Peter, pale and staring, was clapping his hands upon his 
breast and sides—he looked like one suddenly becoming 
deranged. 

“He’s, sick!” cried Ben. 

“No, he’s lost something,” said Carl. 

Peter could only gasp—“The pocketbook! with all our 
money in it—it’s gone!” 

For an instant all were too much startled to speak. 

Carl at last came out with a gruff— 

“No sense in letting one fellow have all the money. I 
said so from the first. Look in your other pocket.” 

“I did—it isn’t there.” 

“Open your under jacket-” 

Peter obeyed mechanically. He even took off his hat and 
looked into it—then thrust his hand desperately into every 
pocket. 

“It’s gone, boys,” he said at last, in a hopeless tone. “No 
tiffin for us, nor dinner neither. What is to be done? We 
can’t get on without money. If we were in Amsterdam I 
could get as much as we want, but there is not a man in 
Haarlem from whom I can borrow a stiver. Don’t one of 
you know any one here who would lend us a few guilders?” 

Each boy looked into five blank faces. Then something 
like a smile passed around the circle, but it got sadly knot¬ 
ted up when it reached Carl. 

“That wouldn’t do,” he said crossly. “I know some 
people here, rich ones, too, but father would flog me 
soundly, if I borrowed a cent from any one. He has ‘An 
honest man need not borrow,’ written over the gateway of 
his summer-house.” 



A Catastrophe 


97 


“Humph!” responded Peter, not particularly admiring 
the sentiment just at that moment. 

The boys grew desperately hungry at once. 

“It wash my fault,” said Jacob, in a penitent tone, to 
Ben. “I say first, petter all de boys put zair pursh into Van 
Holp’s monish.” 

“Nonsense, Jacob; you did it all for the best.” 

Ben said this in such a sprightly tone that the two Van 
Holps and Carl felt sure he had proposed a plan that would 
relieve the party at once. 

“What? what? Tell us, Van Mounen,” they cried. 

“He says it is not Jacob’s fault that the money is lost— 
that he did it for the best, when he proposed that Van Holp 
should put all of our money into his purse.” 

“Is that all?” said Ludwig dismally; “he need not have 
made such a fuss in just saying that . How much money 
have we lost?” 

“Don’t you remember?” said Peter. “We each put in 
exactly ten guilders. The purse had sixty guilders in it. 
I am the stupidest fellow in the world; little Schimmelpen- 
ninck would have made you a better captain. I could pom¬ 
mel myself for bringing such a disappointment upon you.” 

“Do it then,” growled Carl. “Pooh,” he added, “we all 
know it was an accident, but that doesn’t help matters. We 
must have money, Van Holp—even if you have to sell your 
wonderful watch.” 

“Sell my mother’s birthday present! Never! I will 
sell my coat, my hat, anything but my watch.” 

“Come, come,” said Jacob pleasantly, “we are making 
too much of this affair. We can go home and start again 
in a day or two.” 

“You may be able to get another ten-guilder piece,” said 
Carl, “but the rest of us will not find it so easy. If we go 
home, we stay home, you may depend.” 



98 


Hans Brinker 


Our captain, whose good-nature had not yet forsaken 
him for a moment, grew indignant. 

“Do you think I will let you suffer for my carelessness,” 
he exclaimed. “I have three times sixty guilders in my 
strong box at home! 

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Carl, hastily, adding in a 
surlier tone, “well, I see no better way than to go back 
hungry.” 

“I see a better plan than that,” said the captain. 

“What is it?” cried all the boys. 

“Why, to make the best of a bad business and go back 
pleasantly, and like men,” said Peter, looking so gallant 
and handsome as he turned his frank face and clear blue 
eyes upon them that they caught his spirit. 

“Ho! for the captain,” they shouted. 

“Now, boys, we may as well make up our minds there’s 
no place like Broek, after all—and that we mean to be there 
in two hours—is that agreed to?” 

“Agreed!” cried all, as they ran to the canal. 

“On with your skates! Are you ready? Here, Jacob, 
let me help you.” 

“Now. One, two, three, start!’ 

And the boyish faces that left Haarlem at that signal 
were nearly as bright as those that had entered it with 
Captain Peter half an hour before. 




HANS 

“Dondek and Blixin!” cried Carl angrily, before the 
party had skated twenty yards from the city gates, “if here 
isn’t that wooden-skate ragamuffin in the patched leather 
breeches. That fellow is everywhere, confound him! We’ll 
be lucky,” he added, in as sneering a tone as he dared to 
assume, “if our captain doesn’t order us to halt and shake 
hands with him.” 

“Your captain is a terrible fellow,” said Peter, pleas¬ 
antly, “but this is a false alarm, Carl—I cannot spy your 
bugbear anywhere among the skaters—ah! there he is! why, 
what is the matter with the lad?” 

Poor Hans! His face was pale, his lips compressed. He 

99 





















100 


Hans Brinker 


skated like one under the effects of a fearful dream. Just 
as he was passing, Peter hailed him: 

“Good day, Hans Brinker!” 

Hans’ countenance brightened at once. “Ah! mynheer, 
is that you*? It is well we meet!” 

“Just like his impertinence,” hissed Carl Schummel, 
darting scornfully past his companions, who seemed in¬ 
clined to linger with their captain. 

“I am glad to see you, Hans,” responded Peter, cheerily, 
“but you look troubled. Can I serve you?” 

“I have a trouble, mynheer,” answered Hans, casting 
down his eyes. Then lifting them again with almost a happy 
expression, he added, “but it is Hans who can help Mynheer 
van Holp this time.” 

“How?” asked Peter, making, in his blunt Dutch way, 
no attempt to conceal his surprise. 

“By giving you this, mynheer”—and Hans held forth the 
missing purse. 

“Hurrah!” shouted the boys taking their cold hands 
from their pockets to wave them joyfully in the air. But 
Peter said, “Thank you, Hans Brinker,” in a tone that 
made Hans feel as if the king had knelt to him. 

The shout of the delighted boys reached the muffled ears 
of the fine young gentleman who, under a full pressure of 
pent-up wrath, was skating toward Amsterdam. A Yankee 
boy would have wheeled about at once and hastened to sat¬ 
isfy his curiosity. But Carl only halted, and with his back 
toward his party wondered what on earth had happened. 
There he stood, immovable, until, feeling sure that nothing 
but the prospect of something to eat could have made them 
hurrah so heartily, he turned and skated slowly toward his 
excited comrades. 

Meantime Peter had drawn Hans aside from the rest. 

“How did you know it was my purse?” he asked. 

“You paid me three guilders yesterday, mynheer, for 



Hans 


101 


making the white-wood chain, telling me that I must buy 
skates.” 

“Yes, I remember.” 

“I saw your purse then; it was of yellow leather.” 

“And where did you find it to-day?” 

“I left my home this morning, mynheer, in great trou¬ 
ble, and as I skated, I took no heed until I stumbled against 
some lumber, and while I was rubbing my knee I saw your 
purse nearly hidden under a log.” 

“That place! Ah, I remember, now; just as we were 
passing it I pulled my tippet from my pocket, and probably 
flirted out the purse at the same time. It would have been 
gone but for you, Hans. Here,” pouring out the contents 
—“you must give us the pleasure of dividing the money 
with you-” 

“No, mynheer,” answered Hans. He spoke quietly, with¬ 
out pretence, or any grace of manner, but Peter, somehow, 
felt rebuked, and put the silver back without a word. 

“I like that boy, rich or poor,” he thought to himself, 
then added aloud, “May I ask about this trouble of yours, 
Hans?” 

“Ah, mynheer, it is a sad case—but I have waited here 
too long. I am going to Leyden to see the great Dr. Boek- 
man-” 

“Dr. Boekman!” exclaimed Peter in astonishment. 

“Yes, mynheer, and I have not a moment to lose. Good 
day!” 

“Stay, I am going that way. Come, my lads! Shall we 
return to Haarlem?” 

“Yes,” cried the boys, eagerly—and off they started. 

“Now,” said Peter, drawing near Hans, both skimming 
the ice so easily and lightly as they skated on together that 
they seemed scarce conscious of moving, “we are going to 
stop at Leyden, and if you are going there only with a mes¬ 
sage to Dr. Boekman cannot I do the errand for you? The 



102 


Hans Brinker 


boys may be too tired to skate so far to-day, but I will prom¬ 
ise to see him early to-morrow if he is to be found in the 
city.” 

“Ah, mynheer, that would be serving me indeed; it is not 
the distance I dread, but leaving my mother so long.” 

“Is she ill?” 

“No, mynheer. It is the father. You may have heard 
it; how he has been without wit for many a year—ever since 
the great Schlossen mill was built; but his body has been 
well and strong. Last night, the mother knelt upon the 
hearth to blow the peat (it is his only delight to sit and 
watch the live embers; and she will blow them into a blaze 
every hour of the day to please him). Before she could 
stir, he sprang upon her like a giant and held her close to 
the fire, all the time laughing and shaking his head. I was 
on the canal; but I heard the mother scream and ran to her. 
The father had never loosened his hold, and her gown was 
smoking. I tried to deaden the fire, but with one hand he 
pushed me off. There was no water in the cottage or I 
could have done better—and all that time he laughed—such 
a terrible laugh, mynheer; hardly a sound, but all in his 
face—I tried to pull her away, but that only made it worse 
—then—it was dreadful, but could I see the mother burn ? 
I beat him—beat him with a stool. He tossed me away. 
The gown was on fire. I would put it out. I can’t remem¬ 
ber well after that; I found myself upon the floor and the 
mother was praying. It seemed to me that she was in a 
blaze, and all the while I could hear that laugh. My sister 
Grretel screamed out that he was holding the mother close to 
the very coals. I could not tell! Gretel flew to the closet 
and filled a porringer with the food he liked, and put it 
upon the floor. Then, mynheer, he left the mother and 
crawled to it like a little child. She was not burnt, only a 
part of her clothing—ah, how kind she was to him all night, 
watching and tending him. He slept in a high fever, with 



Hans 


103 


his hand pressed to his head. The mother says he has done 
that so much of late, as though he felt pain there—Ah, myn¬ 
heer, I did not mean to tell you. If the father was himself, 
he would not harm even a kitten-” 

For a moment the two boys moved on in silence. 

“It is terrible,” said Peter at last—“How is he today?” 

“Very sick, mynheer-” 

“Why go for Dr. Boekman, Hans? There are others in 
Amsterdam who could help him, perhaps;—Boekman is a 
famous man, sought only by the wealthiest and they often 
wait upon him in vain.” 

“He promised, mynheer, he promised me yesterday to 
come to the father in a week—but now that the change has 
come, we cannot wait—we think the poor father is dying. 
Oh! mynheer, you can plead with him to come quick—he 
will not wait a whole week and our father dying—the good 
meester is so kind-” 

“So kind!” echoed Peter, in astonishment. “Why, he is 
known as the Grossest man in Holland!” 

“He looks so because he has no fat, and his head is busy 
but his heart is kind, I know. Tell the meester what I have 
told you, mynheer, and he will come.” 

“I hope so, Hans, with all my heart. You are in haste to 
turn homeward, I see. Promise me that should you need a 
friend, you will go to my mother, at Broek. Tell her I bade 
you see her; and, Hans Brinker—not as a reward—but as a 
gift—take a few of these guilders.” 

Hans shook his head resolutely. 

“No, no, mynheer—I cannot take it. If I could find work 
in Broek or at the South Mill I would be glad, but it is the 
same story everywhere—‘wait till spring.’ ” 

“It is well you speak of it,” said Peter eagerly, “for my 
father needs help at once—Your pretty chain pleased him 
much—he said ‘ That boy has a clean cut, he would be good 



104 


Hans Brinker 


at carving’. There is to be a carved portal to our new sum¬ 
mer-house, and father will pay well for the job.” 

“God is good!” cried Hans in sudden delight—“Oh! 
mynheer, that would be too much joy—I have never tried 
big work—but I can do it—I know I can.” 

“Well, tell my father you are the Hans Brinker of whom 
I spoke. He will be glad to serve you.” 

Hans stared in honest surprise. 

“Thank you, mynheer.” 

“Now, captain,” shouted Carl, anxious to appear as 
good-humored as possible, by way of atonement, “here we 
are in the midst of Haarlem, and no word from you yet— 
we await your orders, and we’re as hungry as wolves.” 

Peter made a cheerful answer, and turned hurriedly to 
Hans. 

“Come get something to eat, and I will detain you no 
longer.” 

What a quick, wistful look Hans threw upon him! Peter 
wondered that he had not noticed before that the poor boy 
was hungry. 

“Ah, mynheer, even now the mother may need me, the 
father may be worse—I must not wait—May God care for 
you”—and, nodding hastily, Hans turned his face home¬ 
ward and was gone. 

“Come, boys,” sighed Peter, “now for our tiffin!” 




It must not be supposed that our young Dutchmen had 
already forgotten the great skating-race which was to take 
place on the Twentieth. On the contrary, they had thought 
and spoken of it very often during the day. Even Ben, 
though he had felt more like a traveler than the rest, had 
never once, through all the sightseeing, lost a certain vision 
of silver skates which, for a week past, had haunted him 
night and day. 

Like a true “John Bull,” as Jacob had called him, he 
never doubted that his English fleetness, English strength, 
English everything, could at any time enable him, on the 
ice, to put all Holland to shame, and the rest of the world, 
too, for that matter. Ben certainly was a superb skater. He 
had enjoyed not half the opportunities for practicing that 
had fallen to his new comrades; but he had improved his 
share to the utmost; and was, besides, so strong of frame, 
so supple of limb—in short such a tight, trim, quick, grace¬ 
ful fellow in every way, that he had taken to skating as nat¬ 
urally as a chamois to leaping, or an eagle to soaring. 

105 



106 


Hans Brinker 


Only to the heavy heart of poor Hans had the vision of 
the silver skates failed to appear during that starry winter 
night and the brighter sunlit day. 

Even Gretel had seen them flitting before her as she sat 
beside her mother through those hours of weary watching 
—not as prizes to be won, but as treasures passing hope¬ 
lessly beyond her reach. 

Rychie, Hilda and Katrinka—why they had scarcely 
known any other thought than “the race! the race! It will 
come off on the Twentieth !” 

These three girls were friends. Though of nearly the 
same age, talent and station, they were as differnt as girls 
could be. 

Hilda van Gleck you already know, a warm-hearted, 
noble girl of fourteen. Rychie Korbes was beautiful to 
look upon, far more sparkling and pretty than Hilda, but 
not half so bright and sunny within. Clouds of pride, of 
discontent and envy had already gathered in her heart, and 
were growing bigger and darker every day. Of course 
these often relieved themselves very much after the man¬ 
ner of other clouds—But who saw the storms and the weep¬ 
ing? Only her maid, or her father, mother and little 
brother—those who loved her better than all. Like other 
clouds, too, hers often took queer shapes, and what was 
really but mist and vapory fancy, assumed the appearance 
of monster wrongs, and mountains of difficulty. To her 
mind, the poor peasant-girl Gretel was not a human being, 
a God-created creature like herself—she was only some¬ 
thing that meant poverty, rags and dirt. Such as Gretel 
had no right to feel, to hope; above all, they should never 
cross the paths of their betters—that is, not in a disagree¬ 
able way. They could toil and labor for them at a respect¬ 
ful distance, even admire them, if they would do it humbly, 
but nothing more. If they rebel, put them down—If they 
suffer, don’t trouble me about it, was Rychie’s secret motto. 



Homes 


107 


And yet how witty she was, how tastefully she dressed, how 
charmingly she sang; how much feeling she displayed (for 
pet kittens and rabbits), and how completely she could 
bewitch sensible, honest-minded lads like Lambert van 
Mounen and Ludwig van Holp! 

Carl was too much like her, within, to be an earnest 
admirer, and perhaps he suspected the clouds. He, being 
deep and surly, and always uncomfortably in earnest, of 
course preferred the lively Katrinka, whose nature was 
made of a hundred tinkling bells. She was a coquette in 
her infancy, a coquette in her childhood, and now a coquette 
in her school-days. Without a thought of harm, she 
coquetted with her studies, her duties, even her little trou¬ 
bles. They shouldn’t know when they bothered her, not 
they. She coquetted with her mother, her pet lamb, her 
baby brother, even with her own golden curls—tossing them 
back as if she despised them. Every one liked her, but who 
could love her? She was never in earnest. A pleasant face, 
a pleasant heart, a pleasant manner—these only satisfy for 
an hour. Poor, happy Katrinka! such as she, tinkle, tinkle 
so merrily through their early days; but Life is so apt to 
coquette with them in turn, to put all their sweet bells out 
of tune, or to silence them one by one! 

How different were the homes of these three girls from 
the tumbling old cottage where Gretel dwelt. Rychie lived 
in a beautiful house near Amsterdam, where the carved 
sideboards were laden with services of silver and gold, and 
where silken tapestries hung in folds from ceiling to floor. 

Hilda’s father owned the largest mansion in Broek. Its 
glittering roof of polished tiles, and its boarded front, 
painted in half a dozen various colors, were the admiration 
of the neighborhood. 

Katrinka’s home, not a mile distant, was the finest of 
Dutch country-seats. The garden was so stiffly laid out in 
little paths and patches that the birds might have mistaken 



108 


Hans Brinker 


it for a great Chinese puzzle with all the pieces spread out 
ready for use. But in summer it was beautiful; the flowers 
made the best of their stiff quarters, and, when the gar¬ 
dener was not watching, glowed and bent and twined about 
each other in the prettiest way imaginable. Such a tulip 
bed! Why, the Queen of the Fairies would never care for 
a grander city in which to hold her court! but Katrinka pre¬ 
ferred the bed of pink and white hyacinths. She loved their 
freshness and fragrance, and the light-hearted way in 
which their bell-shaped blossoms swung in the breeze. 

Carl was both right and wrong when he said that 
Katrinka and Rychie were furious at the very idea of the 
peasant Gretel joining in the race. He had heard Rychie 
declare it was “disgraceful, shameful, too bad!” which in 
Dutch, as in English, is generally the strongest expression 
an indignant girl can use; and he had seen Katrinka nod 
her pretty head, and heard her sweetly echo “ shameful, too 
bad!” as nearly like Rychie as tinkling bells can be like the 
voice of real anger. That had satisfied him. He never sus¬ 
pected that had Hilda, not Rychie, first talked with 
Katrinka upon the subject, the bells would have jingled as 
willing an echo. She would have said, “ Certainly, let her 
join us,” and would have skipped off thinking no more 
about it. But now Katrinka with sweet emphasis pro¬ 
nounced it a shame that a goose-girl, a forlorn little crea¬ 
ture like Gretel should be allowed to spoil the race. 

Rychie being rich and powerful (in a schoolgirl way) had 
other followers, besides Katrinka, who were induced to 
share her opinions because they were either too careless or 
too cowardly to think for themselves. 

Poor little Gretel! Her home was sad and dark enough 
now. Raff Brinker lay moaning upon his rough bed, and 
his vrouw, forgetting and forgiving everything, bathed his 
forehead, his lips, weeping and praying that he might not 
die. Hans, as we know, had started in desperation for 



Homes 


109 


Leyden to search for Dr. Boekman, and induce him, if pos¬ 
sible, to come to their father at once. Gretel, filled with a 
strange dread, had done the work as well as she could, wiped 
the rough brick floor, brought peat to build up the slow fire, 
and melted ice for her mother’s use. This accomplished, 
she seated herself upon a low stool near the bed, and begged 
her mother to try and sleep a while. 

“You are so tired,” she whispered, “not once have you 
closed your eyes since that dreadful hour last night. See, I 
have straightened the willow bed in the corner, and spread 
everything soft upon it I could find, so that the mother 
might lie in comfort. Here is your jacket. Take off that 
pretty dress, I’ll fold it away very carefully, and put it in 
the big chest before you go to sleep.” 

Dame Brinker shook her head without turning her eyes 
from her husband’s face. 

“I can watch, mother,” urged Gretel, “and I’ll wake you 
every time the father stirs. You are so pale, and your eyes 
are so red—oh, mother, do!” 

The child pleaded in vain. Dame Brinker would not 
leave her post. 

Gretel looked at her in troubled silence, wondering 
whether it were very wicked to care more for one parent 
than for the other—and sure, yes, quite sure, that she 
dreaded her father, while she clung to her mother with a 
love that was almost idolatry. 

“Hans loves the father so well,” she thought, “why can¬ 
not I ? Yet I could not help crying when I saw his hand 
bleed that day, last month, when he snatched the knife— 
and now, when he moans, how I ache, ache all over. Per¬ 
haps I love him, after all, and God will see I am not such 
a bad, wicked girl as I thought. Yes, I love the poor father 
—almost as Hans does—not quite, for Hans is stronger and 
does not fear him. Oh, will that moaning go on forever 
and ever! Poor mother, how patient she is; she never 



110 


Hans Brinker 


pouts, as I do, about the money that went away so strange. 
If he only could, just for one instant, open his eyes and look 
at us, as Hans does, and tell us where mother’s guilders 
went, I would not care for the rest—yes, I would care—I 
don’t want the poor father to die, to be all blue and cold like 
Annie Bouman’s little sister—I know I don’t—dear God, 
I don’t want father to die.” 

Her thoughts merged into a prayer. When it ended, the 
poor child scarcely knew. Soon she found herself watching 
a little pulse of light at the side of the fire, beating faintly 
but steadily, showing that somewhere in the dark pile there 
was warmth and light that would overspread it at last. A 
large earthen cup filled with burning peat stood near the 
bedside; Gretel had placed it there to ‘ 6 stop the father’s 
shivering,” she said. She watched it as it sent a glow 
around the mother’s form, tipping her faded skirt with 
light, and shedding a sort of newness over the threadbare 
bodice. It was a relief to Gretel to see the lines in that 
weary face soften as the firelight flickered gently across it. 

Next she counted the window-panes, broken and patched 
as they were; and finally, after tracing every crack and 
seam in the walls, fixed her gaze upon a carved shelf made 
by Hans. The shelf hung as high as Gretel could reach. It 
held a large leather-covered Bible, with brass clasps, a 
wedding present to Dame Brinker from the family at 
Heidelberg. 

“ Ah, how handy Hans is! If he were here he could turn 
the father some way so the moans would stop—dear! dear! 
if this sickness lasts, we shall never skate any more. I must 
send my new skates back to the beautiful lady. Hans and I 
will not see the race,” and Gretel’s eyes, that had been dry 
before, grew full of tears. 

“Never cry, child,” said her mother, soothingly. “This 
sickness may not be as bad as we think. The father has lain 
this way before.” 



Homes 


111 


Gretel sobbed now. 

4 4 Oh, mother, it is not that alone—you do not know all— 
I am very, very bad and wicked!” 

“You, Gretel! you so patient and good!” and a bright, 
puzzled look beamed for an instant upon the child. 4 4 Hush, 
lovey, you’ll wake him.” 

Gretel hid her face in her mother’s lap, and tried not to 
cry. 

Her little hand, so thin and brown, lay in the coarse palm 
of her mother, creased with many a hard day’s work. 
Eychie would have shuddered to touch either, yet they 
pressed warmly upon each other. Soon Gretel looked up 
with that dull, homely look which, they say, poor children 
in shanties are apt to have, and said in a trembling voice: 

4 4 The father tried to burn you—he did—I saw him, and 
he was laughing!” 

44 Hush, child!” 

The mother’s words came so suddenly and sharply that 
Raff Brinker, dead as he was to all that was passing round 
him, twitched slightly upon the bed. 

Gretel said no more, but plucked drearily at the jagged 
edge of a hole in her mother’s holiday gown. It had been 
burned there—well for Dame Brinker that the gown was 
woolen. 




HAARLEM.—THE BOYS HEAR VOICES 

Refreshed and rested, our boys came forth from the cof¬ 
fee-house just as the big clock in the Square, after the man¬ 
ner of certain Holland timekeepers, was striking two with 
its half-hour bell, for half-past two. 

The captain was absorbed in thought, at first, for Hans 
Brinker’s sad story still echoed in his ears. Not until 
Ludwig rebuked him with a laughing, “Wake up, Grand¬ 
father!” did he reassume his position as gallant boy-leader 
of his band. 

“Ahem! this way, young gentlemen!” 

They were walking through the streets of the city, not on 
a curbed sidewalk, for such a thing is rarely to be found in 
Holland, but on the brick pavement that lay on the borders 
of the cobblestone carriage-way without breaking its level 
expanse. 

Haarlem, like Amsterdam, was gayer than usual, in 
honor of St. Nicholas. 

A strange figure was approaching them. It was a small 
man dressed in black, with a short cloak; he wore a wig and 

112 































Haarlem.—The Boys Hear Voices 


113 


a cocked hat from which a long crape streamer was flying. 

“Who comes here?” cried Ben; “what a queer-looking 
object.” 

“That’s the aanspreeker,” said Lambert; “some one is 
dead.” 

“Is that the way men dress in mourning in this 
country?” 

“Oh, no. The aanspreeker attends funerals, and it is his 
business, when any one dies, to notify all the friends and 
relatives.” 

“What a strange custom.” 

“Well,” said Lambert, “we needn’t feel very badly about 
this particular death, for I see another man has lately been 
born to the world to fill up the vacant place.” 

Ben stared. “How do you know that?” 

“Don’t you see that pretty red pincushion hanging on 
yonder door?” asked Lambert in return. 

“Yes.” 

“Well, that’s a boy.” 

“A boy! what do you mean?” 

“I mean that here in Haarlem whenever a boy is born, 
the parents have a red pincushion put out at the door. If 
our young friend had been a girl instead of a boy the 
cushion would have been white. In some places they have 
much more fanciful affairs, all trimmed with lace, and even 
among the very poorest houses you will see a bit of ribbon 
or even a string tied on the doorlatch-” 

“Look!” almost screamed Ben, “there is a white cushion, 
at the door of that double-jointed house with the funny 
roof.” 

“I don’t see any house with a funny roof.” 

“Oh, of course not,” said Ben. “I forget you’re a native; 
but all the roofs are queer to me, for that matter. I mean 
the house next to that green building.” 



114 


Hans Brinker 


“True enough—there’s a girl! I tell you what, captain,” 
called out Lambert, slipping easily into Dutch, “we must 
get out of this street as soon as possible. It’s full of babies! 
They’ll set up a squall in a moment.” 

The captain laughed. “I shall take you to hear better 
music than that,” he said; “we are just in time to hear the 
organ of St. Bay on. The church is open today.” 

“What, the great Haarlem organ?” asked Ben. “That 
will be a treat indeed. I have often read of it, with its tre¬ 
mendous pipes, and its vox humana 1 that sounds like a giant 
singing.” 

“The same,” answered Lambert van Mounen. 

Peter was right. The church was open, though not for 
religious services. Some one was playing upon the organ. 
As the boys entered, a swell of sound rushed forth to meet 
them. It seemed to bear them, one by one, into the shadows 
of the building. 

Louder and louder it grew until it became like the din and 
roar of some mighty tempest, or like the ocean surging 
upon the shore. In the midst of the tumult a tinkling bell 
was heard; another answered, then another, and the storm 
paused as if to listen. The bells grew bolder; they rang out 
loud and clear. Other deep toned bells joined in; they were 
tolling in solemn concert—ding, dong! ding, dong! The 
storm broke forth again with redoubled fury—gathering its 
distant thunder. The boys looked at each other, but did not 
speak. It was growing serious. What was that? Who 
screamed? What screamed—that terrible, musical scream? 
Was it man or demon? Or was it some monster shut up 
behind that carved brass frame—behind those great silver 
columns—some despairing monster begging, screaming for 
freedom? It was the Vox Humana! 

At last an answer came,—soft, tender, loving, like a 


(1) An organ stop which produces an effect resembling the human voice. 




Haarlem.—The Boys Hear Voices 


115 


mother’s song. The storm grew silent; hidden birds sprang 
forth filling the air with glad, ecstatic music, rising higher 
and higher until the last faint note was lost in the distance. 

The Yon Humana was stilled; but in the glorious hymn 
of thanksgiving that now arose, one could almost hear the 
throbbing of a human heart. What did it mean? That 
man’s imploring cry should in time be met with a deep con¬ 
tent? That gratitude would give us freedom? To Peter 
and Ben it seemed that the angels were singing. Their eyes 
grew dim, and their souls dizzy with a strange joy. At last, 
as if borne upward by invisible hands, they were floating 
away on the music, all fatigue forgotten, and with no wish 
but to hear forever those beautiful sounds—when suddenly 
Van Holp’s sleeve was pulled impatiently and a gruff voice 
beside him asked: 

“How long are you going to stay here, captain—blinking 
at the ceiling like a sick rabbit? It’s high time we started.” 

“Hush!” whispered Peter, only half aroused. 

“Come, man! Let’s go,” said Carl, giving the sleeve a 
second pull. 

Peter turned reluctantly; he would not detain the boys 
against their will. All but Ben were casting rather 
reproachful glances upon him. 

“Well, boys,” he whispered, “we will go. Softly now.” 

“That’s the greatest thing I’ve seen or heard since I’ve 
been in Holland!” cried Ben, enthusiastically, as soon as 
they reached the open air. “ It’s glorious! ’ ’ 

Ludwig and Carl laughed slyly at the English boy’s 
wart ml, or gibberish; Jacob yawned; Peter gave Ben a 
look that made him instantly feel that he and Peter were 
not so very different after all, though one hailed from Hol¬ 
land and the other from England; and Lambert, the inter¬ 
preter, responded with a brisk— 

“You may well say so. I believe there are one or two 
organs nowadays that are said to be as fine; but for years 



116 


Hans Brinker 


and years this organ of St. Bavon was the grandest in the 
world.’ ’ 

“Do you know how large it is?” asked Ben. “I noticed 
that the church itself was prodigiously high and that the 
organ filled the end of the great aisle almost from floor to 
roof.” 

“That’s true,” said Lambert, “and how superb the pipes 
looked—just like grand columns of silver. They’re only 
for show, you know; the real pipes are behind them, some 
big enough for a man to crawl through, and some smaller 
than a baby’s whistle. Well, sir, for size, the church is 
higher than Westminster Abbey, to begin with, and, as you 
say, the organ makes a tremendous show even then. Father 
told me last night that it is one hundred and eight feet high, 
fifty feet broad, and has over five thousand pipes; it has 
sixty-four stops, if you know what they are, I don’t, and 
three keyboards.” 

“Good for you!” said Ben. “You have a fine memory. 
My head is a perfect colander for figures; they slip through 
as fast as they’re poured in. But other facts and historical 
events stay behind—that’s some consolation.” 

“There we differ,” returned Van Mounen. “I’m great 
on names and figures, but history, take it altogether, seems 
to me to be the most hopeless kind of a jumble.” 

Meantime Carl and Ludwig were having a discussion con¬ 
cerning some square wooden monuments they had observed 
in the interior of the church; Ludwig declared that each 
bore the name of the person buried beneath, and Carl 
insisted that they had no names, but only the heraldic arms 
of the deceased painted on a black ground, with the date of 
the death in gilt letters. 

“I ought to know,” said Carl, “for I walked across to the 
east side, to look for the cannon-ball which mother told me 
was embedded there. It was fired into the church, in the 
year fifteen hundred and something, by those rascally 



Haarlem.—The Boys Hear Voices 


117 


Spaniards, while the services were going on. There it was 
in the wall, sure enough, and while I was walking back, I 
noticed the monuments—I tell you they haven’t a sign of a 
name upon them.” 

“Ask Peter,” said Ludwig, only half convinced. 

“Carl is right,” replied Peter, who though conversing 
with Jacob, had overheard their dispute. “Well, Jacob, as 
I was saying, Handel the great composer chanced to visit 
Haarlem and of course he at once hunted up this famous 
organ. He gained admittance, and was playing upon it 
with all his might, when the regular organist chanced to 
enter the building. The man stood awe-struck; he was a 
good player himself, but he had never heard such music 
before. ‘Who is there*?’ he cried. ‘If it is not an angel or 
the devil, it must be Handel!’ When he discovered that it 
was the great musician, he was still more mystified! ‘But 
how is this?’ said he; ‘you have done impossible things—no 
ten fingers on earth can play the passages you have given; 
human hands couldn’t control all the keys and stops!’ ‘I 
know it,’ said Handel, coolly, ‘and for that reason, I was 
forced to strike some notes with the end of my nose.’ 
Donder! just think how the old organist must have stared!” 

“Hey! What?” exclaimed Jacob, startled when Peter’s 
animated voice suddenly became silent. 

“Haven’t you heard me, you rascal?” was the indignant 
rejoinder. 

“Oh, yes—no—the fact is—I heard you at first—I’m 
awake now, but I do believe I’ve been walking beside you 
half asleep,” stammered Jacob, with such a doleful, bewil¬ 
dered look on his face, that Peter could not help laughing. 




THE MAN WITH FOUR HEADS 

After leaving the church, the boys stopped near by in 
the open market-place, to look at the bronze statue of Lau¬ 
rens Janzoon Coster, who is believed by the Dutch to have 
been the inventor of printing. This is disputed by those 
who award the same honor to Johannes Gutenberg of May- 
ence; while many maintain that Faustus, a servant of 
Coster, stole his master’s wooden types on a Christmas eve, 
when the latter was at church, and fled with his booty, and 
his secret, to Mayence. Coster was a native of Haarlem, 
and the Hollanders are naturally anxious to secure the 
credit of the invention for their illustrious townsman. Cer¬ 
tain it is, that the first book he printed, is kept, by the city, 
in a silver case wrapped in silk, and is shown with great 
caution as a most precious relic. It is said, he first con¬ 
ceived the idea of printing from cutting his name upon the 

118 
































The Man with Four Heads 


119 


bark of a tree, and afterward pressing a piece of paper 
upon the characters. 

Of course Lambert and his English friend fully discussed 
this subject. They also had rather a warm argument con¬ 
cerning another invention. Lambert declared that the 
honor of giving both the telescope and microscope to the 
world lay between Metius and Jansen, both Hollanders; 
while Ben as stoutly insisted that Roger Bacon, an English 
monk of the thirteenth century, “wrote out the whole thing, 
sir, perfect descriptions of microscopes and telescopes, too, 
long before either of those other fellows were born.” 

On one subject, however, they both agreed: that the art of 
curing and pickling herrings was discovered by William 
Beukles of Holland, and that the country did perfectly 
right in honoring him as a national benefactor, for its 
wealth and importance had been in a great measure due to 
its herring trade. 

“It is astonishing,’’said Ben, “in what prodigious quan¬ 
tities those fish are found. I don’t know how it is here, but 
on the coast of England, off Yarmouth, the herring shoals 
have been known to be six and seven feet deep with fish.” 

“That is prodigious, indeed,” said Lambert, “but you 
know your word herring is derived from the German heer, 
an army, on account of a way the fish have of coming in 
large numbers.” 

Soon afterward, while passing a cobbler’s shop, Ben 
exclaimed: 

“Hollo! Lambert, here is the name of one of your great¬ 
est men over a cobbler’s stall! Boerhaave—if it were only 
Herman Boerhaave instead of Hendrick, it would be com¬ 
plete.” 

Lambert knit his brows reflectively, as he replied: 

“Boerhaave—Boerhaave—the name is perfectly fa¬ 
miliar ; I remember, too, he was born in 1668 , but the rest 
is all gone, as usual. There have been so many famous 



120 


Hans Brinker 


Hollanders, you see, it is impossible for a fellow to know 
them all. What was he? Did he have two heads? or was 
he one of your great, natural swimmers like Marco Polo?” 

“He had four heads,” answered Ben, laughing, “for he 
was a great physician, naturalist, botanist and chemist. I 
am full of him just now, for I read his life a few weeks 
ago.” 

“Pour out a little then,” said Lambert; “only walk 
faster, we shall lose sight of the other boys.” 

“Well,” resumed Ben, quickening his pace, and looking 
with great interest at everything going on in the crowded 
street. “This Dr. Boerhaave was a great anspewker.” 

“A great whatV’ roared Lambert. 

“Oh, I beg pardon—I was thinking of that man over 
there, with the cocked hat. He’s an anspewker, isn’t he?” 

“Yes. He’s an aanspreeker—if that is what you mean 
to say. But what about your friend with the four heads?” 

“Well, as I was going to say, the doctor was left a penni¬ 
less orphan at sixteen without education or friends.” 

“Jolly beginning!” interposed Lambert. 

“Now, don’t interrupt. He was a poor friendless orphan 
at sixteen, but he was so persevering and industrious, so 
determined to gain knowledge, that he made his way, and 
in time became one of the most learned men of Europe. 
All the- What is that?” 

“Where? What do you mean?” 

“Why, that paper on the door opposite. Don’t you see? 
Two or three persons are reading it; I have noticed several 
of these papers since I’ve been here.” 

“Oh, that’s only a health-bulletin. Somebody in the 
house is ill, and to prevent a steady knocking at the door, 
the family write an account of the patient’s condition on a 
placard, and hang it outside the door, for the benefit of 
inquiring friends—a very sensible custom, I’m sure. Noth¬ 
ing strange about it that I can see—go on, please—you said 
‘all the’—and there you left me hanging.” 



The Man with Four Heads 


121 


“I was going to say,” resumed Ben, “that all the—all the 
—how comically persons do dress here, to be sure! Just 
look at those men and women with their sugar-loaf hats— 
and see this woman ahead of us with a straw-bonnet like a 
scoop-shovel tapering to a point in the back. Did ever you 
see anything so funny? And those tremendous wooden 
shoes, too—I declare she’s a beauty!” 

“Oh, they are only back-country folk,” said Lambert, 
rather impatiently—“You might as well let old Boerhaave 
drop, or else shut your eyes-” 

“Ha! ha! Well, I was going to say—all the big men of 
his day sought out this great professor. Even Peter the 
Great when he came over to Holland from Russia to learn 
ship-building, attended his lectures regularly. By that 
time Boerhaave was professor of Medicine and Chemistry 
and Botany in the University of Leyden. He had grown 
to be very wealthy as a practicing physician; but he used to 
say that the poor were his best patients because God would 
be their paymaster. All Europe learned to love and honor 
him. In short, he became so famous that a certain man¬ 
darin of China addressed a letter to ‘The illustrious Boer¬ 
haave, physician in Europe,’ and the letter found its way 
to him without any difficulty.” 

“My goodness! That is what I call being a public char¬ 
acter. The boys have stopped. How now, Captain van 
Holp, what next?” 

“We propose to move on,” said Van Holp; “there is 
nothing to see at this season in the Bosch—the Bosch is a 
noble wood, Benjamin, a grand Park where they have most 
magnificent trees, protected by law—Do you understand?” 

“Ya!” nodded Ben, as the captain proceeded: 

“Unless you all desire to visit the Museum of Natural 
History, we may go on the grand canal again. If we had 
more time it would be pleasant to take Benjamin up the 
Blue Stairs.” 



122 


Hans Brinker 


“What are the Blue Stairs, Lambert?” asked Ben. 

“They are the highest point of the Dunes. You have a 
grand view of the ocean from there, besides a fine chance 
to see how wonderful these Dunes are. One can hardly 
believe that the wind could ever heap up sand in so remark¬ 
able a way. But we have to go through Bloemendal to get 
there—not a very pretty village, and some distance from 
here. What do you say?” 

“Oh, I am ready for anything. For my part, I would 
rather steer direct for Leyden, but we’ll do as the captain 
says—hey, Jacob?” 

“Ya, dat ish goot,” said Jacob, who felt decidedly more 
like taking another nap, than ascending the Blue Stairs. 

The captain was in favor of going to Leyden. 

“It’s four long miles from here. (Full sixteen of your 
English miles, Benjamin.) We have no time to lose if you 
wish to reach there before midnight. Decide quickly, boys 
—Blue Stairs or Leyden?” 

“Leyden,” they answered—and were out of Haarlem in 
a twinkling, admiring the lofty, tower-like windmills and 
pretty country-seats as they left the city behind them. 

“If you really wish to see Haarlem,” said Lambert to 
Ben, after they had skated a while in silence, “you should 
visit it in summer. It is the greatest place in the world for 
beautiful flowers. The walks around the city are superb; 
and the ‘Wood’ with its miles of noble elms, all in full 
feather, is something to remember. You need not smile, 
old fellow, at my saying ‘full feather’—I was thinking of 
waving plumes, and got my words mixed up a little. But 
a Dutch elm beats everything; it is the noblest tree on earth, 
Ben—if you except the English oak-” 

“Aye,” said Ben, solemnly, “if you except the English 
oak”—and for some moments he could scarcely see the 
canal because Bobby and Jenny kept bobbing in the air 
before his eyes. 




FRIENDS IN NEED 

Meantime, the other boys were listening to Peter’s 
account of an incident which had long ago occurred 1 in a 
part of the city where stood an ancient castle, whose lord 
had tyrannized over the burghers of the town to such an 
extent, that they surrounded his castle, and laid siege to it. 
Just at the last extremity, when the haughty lord felt that 
he could hold out no longer, and was preparing to sell his 
life as dearly as possible, his lady appeared on the ram¬ 
parts, and offered to surrender everything, provided she 
was permitted to bring out, and retain, as much of her most 
precious household goods as she could carry upon her back. 
The promise was given—and forth came the lady from the 
gateway bearing her husband upon her shoulders. The 
burghers’ pledge preserved him from the fury of the troops, 
but left them free to wreak their vengeance upon the castle. 

“Do you believe that story, Captain Peter?” asked Carl, 
in an incredulous tone. 

(1) Sir Thomas Carr's Tour through Holland. 








124 


Hans Brinker 


“Of course, I do; it is historical. Why should I 
doubt it?” 

“Simply because no woman could do it—and, if she 
could, she wouldn’t. That is my opinion.” 

“And I believe there are many who would. That is, to 
save any one they really cared for,” said Ludwig. 

Jacob, who in spite of his fat and sleepiness, was of rather 
a sentimental turn, had listened with deep interest. 

“That is right, little fellow,” he said, nodding his head 
approvingly. “I believe every word of it. I shall never 
marry a woman who would not be glad to do as much 
for me.” 

“Heaven help her!” cried Carl, turning to gaze at the 
speaker; “why, Poot, three men couldn’t do it!” 

“Perhaps not,” said Jacob quietly—feeling that he had 
asked rather too much of the future Mrs. Poot. “But she 
must be willing, that is all.” 

“Aye,” responded Peter’s cheery voice, “willing heart 
makes nimble foot—and who knows, but it may make strong 
arms also.” 

“Pete,” asked Ludwig, changing the subject, “did you 
tell me last night that the painter Wouvermans was born 
in Haarlem?” 

“Yes, and Jacob Ruysdael and Berghem too. I like 
Berghem because he was always good-natured—they say 
he always sang while he painted, and though he died nearly 
two hundred years ago, there are traditions still afloat con¬ 
cerning his pleasant laugh. He was a great painter, and 
he had a wife as cross as Xantippe.” 

“They balanced each other finely,” said Ludwig; “he was 
kind and she was cross. But, Peter, before I forget it, 
wasn’t that picture of St. Hubert and the Horse painted by 
Wouvermans? You remember father showed us an engrav¬ 
ing from it last night.” 



Friends in Need 


125 


“Yes, indeed; there is a story connected with that 
picture.” 

“Tell us!” cried two or three, drawing closer to Peter 
as they skated on. 

“Wouvermans,” began the captain, oratorically, “was 
born in 1620 , just four years before Berghem. He was a 
master of his art, and especially excelled in painting horses. 
Strange as it may seem, people w T ere so long finding out 
his merits, that, even after he had arrived at the height of 
his excellence, he was obliged to sell his pictures for very 
paltry prices. The poor artist became completely discour¬ 
aged, and, worse than all, was over head and ears in debt. 
One day he was talking over his troubles with his father- 
confessor, who was one of the few who recognized his 
genius. The priest determined to assist him, and accord¬ 
ingly lent him six hundred guilders, advising him at the 
same time to demand a better price for his pictures. 
Wouvermans did so, and in the meantime paid his debts. 
Matters brightened with him at once. Everybody appre¬ 
ciated the great artist who painted such costly pictures. He 
grew rich. The six hundred guilders were returned, and in 
gratitude, Wouvermans sent also a work which he had 
painted, representing his benefactor as St. Hubert kneel¬ 
ing before his horse—the very picture, Ludwig, of which 
we were speaking last night.” 

“So! so!” exclaimed Ludwig, with deep interest. “I 
must take another look at the engraving as soon as we get 
home.” 

At that same hour, while Ben was skating with his com¬ 
panions beside the Holland dyke, Bobby and Jenny stood 
in their pretty English schoolhouse, ready to join in the 
duties of their reading class. 

“Commence! Master Robert Dobbs,” said the teacher, 
“page 242 ; now, sir, mind every stop.” 



126 


Hans Brinker 


And Robby, in a quick childish voice, roared forth at 
schoolroom pitch: 

“ LESSON 62. —THE HERO OF HAARLEM 

“Many years ago, there lived in Haarlem, one of the 
principal cities of Holland, a sunny-haired boy, of gentle 
disposition. His father was a sluicer, that is, a man whose 
business it was to open and close the sluices, or large oaken 
gates, that are placed at regular distances across the 
entrances of the canals, to regulate the amount of water 
that shall flow into them. 

“The sluicer raises the gates more or less according to 
the quantity of water required, and closes them carefully 
at night, in order to avoid all possible danger of an over 
supply running into the canal, or the water would soon 
overflow it and inundate the surrounding country. As a 
great portion of Holland is lower than the level of the sea, 
the waters are kept from flooding the land, only by means 
of strong dykes, or barriers, and by means of these sluices, 
which are often strained to the utmost by the pressure of 
the rising tides. Even the little children in Holland know 
that constant watchfulness is required to keep the rivers 
and ocean from overwhelming the country, and that a 
moment’s neglect of the sluicer’s duty may bring ruin and 
death to all.” 

[“Very good,” said the teacher; “now, Susan.”] 

“One lovely autumn afternoon, when the boy was about 
eight years old, he obtained his parents’ consent to carry 
some cakes to a blind man who lived out in the country, on 
the other side of the dyke. The little fellow started on his 
errand with a light heart, and having spent an hour with 
his grateful old friend, he bade him farewell and started on 
his homeward walk. 

“ Trudging stoutly along by the canal, he noticed how the 
autumn rains had swollen the waters. Even while hum¬ 
ming his careless, childish song, he thought of his father’s 



Friends in Need 


127 


brave old gates and felt glad of their strength, for thought 
he, if they gave way, where would father and mother be? 
These pretty fields would be all covered with the angry 
waters—father always calls them the angry waters; I sup¬ 
pose he thinks they are mad at him for keeping them out 
so long.’ And with these thoughts just flitting across his 
brain, the little fellow stooped to pick the pretty blue flow¬ 
ers that grew along his way. Sometimes he stopped to throw 
some feathery seed-ball in the air, and watch it as it floated 
away; sometimes he listened to the stealthy rustling of a 
rabbit, speeding through the grass, but oftener he smiled as 
he recalled the happy light he had seen arise on the weary, 
listening face of his blind old friend.’’ 

[“Now, Henry,” said the teacher, nodding to the next 
little reader.] 

“Suddenly the boy looked around him in dismay. He 
had not noticed that the sun was setting: now he saw that 
his long shadow on the grass had vanished. It was growing 
dark, he was still some distance from home, and in a lonely 
ravine, where even the blue flowers had turned to gray. He 
quickened his footsteps; and with a beating heart recalled 
many a nursery tale of children belated in dreary forests. 
Just as he was bracing himself for a run, he was startled by 
the sound of trickling water. Whence did it come? He 
looked up and saw a small hole in the dyke through which 
a tiny stream was flowing. Any child in Holland will shud¬ 
der at the thought of a leak in the dyke! The boy under¬ 
stood the danger at a glance. That little hole, if the water 
were allowed to trickle through, would soon be a large one, 
and a terrible inundation would be the result. 

“Quick as a flash, he saw his duty. Throwing away his 
flowers, the boy clambered up the heights, until he reached 
the hole. His chubby little finger was thrust in, almost 
before he knew it. The flowing was stopped! 4 Ah!’ he 
thought, with a chuckle of boyish delight, ‘the angry waters 



128 


Hans Brinker 


must stay back now! Haarlem shall not be drowned while 
I am here!’ 

“This was all very well at first, but the night was falling 
rapidly; chill vapors filled the air. Our little hero began to 
tremble with cold and dread. He shouted loudly; he 
screamed ‘Come here! come here!’ but no one came. The 
cold grew more intense, a numbness, commencing in the 
tired little finger, crept over his hand and arm, and soon his 
whole body was filled with pain. He shouted again, ‘Will 
no one come? Mother! mother!’ Alas, his mother, good, 
practical soul, had already locked the doors, and had fully 
resolved to scold him on the morrow, for spending the night 
with blind Jansen without her permission. He tried to 
whistle; perhaps some straggling boy might heed the sig¬ 
nal ; but his teeth chattered so, it was impossible. Then he 
called on God for help; and the answer came, through a 
holy resolution—‘I will stay here till morning.’” 

[“Now, Jenny Dobbs,” said the teacher. Jenny’s eyes 
were glistening, but she took a long breath and com¬ 
menced:] 

“The midnight moon looked down upon that small soli¬ 
tary form, sitting upon a stone, half-way up the dyke. His 
head was bent but he was not asleep, for every now and then 
one restless hand rubbed feebly the outstretched arm that 
seemed fastened to the dyke—and often the pale, tearful 
face turned quickly at some real or fancied sounds. 

“How can we know the sufferings of that long and fear¬ 
ful watch—what falterings of purpose, what childish ter¬ 
rors came over the boy as he thought of the warm little bed 
at home, of his parents, his brothers and sisters, then looked 
into the cold, dreary night! 

“If he drew away that tiny finger, the angry waters, 
grown angrier still, would rush forth, and never stop until 
they had swept over the town. No, he would hold it there 
till daylight—if he lived! He was not very sure of living. 



Friends in Need 


129 


What did this strange buzzing mean ? and then the knives 
that seemed prickling and piercing him from head to foot ? 
He was not certain now that he could draw his finger away, 
even if he wished to. 

“ At daybreak a clergyman, returning from the bedside of 
a sick parishioner, thought he heard groans as he walked 
along on the top of the dyke. Bending, he saw, far down 
on the side, a child apparently writhing with pain. 

“ ‘In the name of wonder, boy/ he exclaimed, ‘what are 
you doing there?’ 

“ ‘I am keeping the water from running out/ was the 
simple answer of the little hero. ‘Tell them to come quick.’ 

“It is needless to add that they did come quickly and 
that-” 

[“Jenny Dobbs,” said the teacher, rather impatiently, 
“if you cannot control your feelings so as to read distinctly, 
we will wait until you recover yourself.” 

“Yes, sir!” said Jenny, quite startled.] 

It was strange; but at that very moment, Ben, far over 
the sea, was saying to Lambert: 

“The noble little fellow! I have frequently met with 
an account of the incident, but I never knew, till now, that 
is was really true.” 

“True! Of course it is,” said Lambert, kindling. “I 
have given you the story just as mother told it to me, years 
ago. Why, there is not a child in Holland who does not 
know it And, Ben, you may not think so, but that little 
boy represents the spirit of the whole country. Not a leak 
can show itself anywhere either in its politics, honor, or 
public safety, that a million fingers are not ready to stop 
it, at any cost.” 

“Whew!” cried Master Ben, “big talking that!” 

“It’s true talk anyway,” rejoined Lambert, so very 
quietly that Ben wisely resolved to make no further 
comment. 




ON THE CANAL 

The skating season had commenced unusually early; our 
boys were by no means alone upon the ice. The afternoon 
was so fine, that men, women, and children, bent upon 
enjoying the holiday, had flocked to the grand canal from 
far and near. Saint Nicholas had evidently remembered 
the favorite pastime; shining new skates were everywhere 
to be seen. Whole families were skimming their way to 
Haarlem or Leyden or the neighboring villages. The ice 
seemed fairly alive. Ben noticed the erect, easy carriage of 
the women, and their picturesque variety of costume. There 
were the latest fashions, fresh from Paris, floating past 
dingy, moth-eaten garments that had seen service through 
two generations; coal-scuttle bonnets perched over freckled 

130 




















On the Canal 


131 , 


faces bright with holiday smiles; stiff muslin caps, with 
wings at the sides, flapping beside cheeks rosy with health 
and contentment; furs, too, encircling the whitest of 
throats; and scanty garments fluttering below faces ruddy 
with exercise—in short every quaint and comical mixture 
of dry-goods and flesh that Holland could furnish, seemed 
sent to enliven the scene. 

There were belles from Leyden, and fishwives from the 
border villages; cheese women from Gouda, and prim 
matrons from beautiful country-seats on the Haarlemmer 
Meer. Gray-headed skaters were constantly to be seen; 
wrinkled old women, with baskets upon their heads; and 
plump little toddlers on skates clutching at their mothers’ 
gowns. Some women carried their babies upon their backs, 
firmly secured with a bright shawl. The effect was pretty 
and graceful as they darted by, or sailed slowly past, now 
nodding to an acquaintance, now chirruping, and throwing 
soft baby-talk, to the muffled little ones they carried. 

Boys and girls were chasing each other, and hiding 
behind the one-horse sleds, that, loaded high with peat or 
timber, pursued their cautious way along the track marked 
out as “safe.” Beautiful, queenly women were there, 
enjoyment sparkling in their quiet eyes. Sometimes a long 
file of young men, each grasping the coat of the one before 
him, flew by with electric speed; and sometimes the ice 
squeaked under the chair of some gorgeous old dowager, or 
rich burgomaster’s lady—who, very red in the nose, and 
sharp in the eyes, looked like a scare-thaw invented by old 
Father Winter for the protection of his skating grounds. 
The chair would be heavy with footstoves and cushions, to 
say nothing of the old lady. Mounted upon shining runners 
it slid along, pushed by the sleepiest of servants, who, look¬ 
ing neither to the right nor the left, bent himself to his task 
while she cast direful glances upon the screaming little row¬ 
dies who invariably acted as body-guard. 



132 


Hans Brinker 


As for the men, they were pictures of placid enjoyment. 
Some were attired in ordinary citizen’s dress; but many 
looked odd enough with their short woolen coats, wide 
breeches, and big silver buckles. These seemed to Ben like 
little boys who had, by a miracle, sprung suddenly into man¬ 
hood, and were forced to wear garments that their aston¬ 
ished mothers had altered in a hurry. He noticed, too, that 
nearly all the men had pipes, as they passed him whizzing 
and smoking like so many locomotives. There was every 
variety of pipes from those of common clay to the most 
expensive meerschaums mounted in silver and gold. Some 
were carved into extraordinary and fantastic shapes, repre¬ 
senting birds, flowers, heads, bugs, and dozens of other 
things; some resembled the “Dutchman’s pipe” that grows 
in our American woods; some were red, and many were of 
a pure snowy white; but the most respectable were those 
which were ripening into a shaded brown—The deeper and 
richer the brown, of course the more honored the pipe, for it 
was a proof that the owner, if honestly shading it, was 
deliberately devoting his manhood to the effort—What pipe 
would not be proud to be the object of such a sacrifice! 

For a while, Ben skated on in silence. There was so 
much to engage his attention that he almost forgot his com¬ 
panions. Part of the time he had been watching the ice¬ 
boats as they flew over the great Haarlemmer Meer (or 
Lake), the frozen surface of which was now plainly visible 
from the canal. These boats had very large sails, much 
larger, in proportion, than those of ordinary vessels, and 
were set upon a triangular frame furnished with an iron 
“runner” at each corner,—the widest part of the triangle 
crossing the bow, and its point stretching beyond the stern. 
They had rudders for guiding, and brakes for arresting 
their progress; and were of all sizes and kinds, from small, 
rough affairs managed by a boy, to large and beautiful ones 
filled with gay pleasure parties, and manned by competent 



On the Canal 


133 


sailors, who smoking their stumpy pipes, reefed and tacked 
and steered with great solemnity and precision. 

Some of the boats were painted and gilded in gaudy style 
and flaunted gay pennons from their mastheads; others 
white as snow, with every spotless sail rounded by the wind, 
looked like swans borne onward by a resistless current. It 
seemed to Ben as, following his fancy, he watched one of 
these in the distance, that he could almost hear its helpless, 
terrified cry, but he soon found that the sound arose from a 
nearer and less romantic cause—from an ice-boat not fifty 
yards from him, using its brakes to avoid a collision with a 
peat-sled. 

It was a rare thing for these boats to be upon the canal 
and their appearance generally caused no little excitement 
among skaters, especially among the timid; but to-day 
every ice-boat in the country seemed afloat or rather aslide 
and the canal had its full share. 

Ben, though delighted at the sight, was often startled at 
the swift approach of the resistless, high-winged things 
threatening to dart in any and every possible direction. It 
required all his energies to keep out of the way of the 
passers-by, and to prevent those screaming little urchins 
from upsetting him with their sleds. Once he halted to 
watch some boys who were making a hole in the ice pre¬ 
paratory to using their fishing spears. Just as he con¬ 
cluded to start again, he found himself suddenly bumped 
into an old lady’s lap. Her push chair had come upon him 
from the rear. The old lady screamed, the servant who was 
propelling her gave a warning hiss—In another instant Ben 
found himself apologizing to empty air; the indignant old 
lady was far ahead. 

This was a slight mishap compared with one that now 
threatened him. A huge ice-boat, under full sail, came tear¬ 
ing down the canal, almost paralyzing Ben with the thought 
of instant destruction. It was close upon him! He saw its 



134 


Hans Brinker 


gilded prow, heard the schipper shout, felt the great boom 
fairly whizz over his head, was blind, deaf and dumb all in 
an instant, then opened his eyes, to find himself spinning 
some yards behind its great, skate-like rudder. It had 
passed within an inch of his shoulder, but he was safe! safe 
to see England again, safe to kiss the dear faces that for an 
instant had flashed before him one by one—father, mother, 
Robby and Jenny—that great boom had dashed their 
images into his very soul. He knew now how much he loved 
them. Perhaps this knowledge made him face compla¬ 
cently the scowls of those on the canal who seemed to feel 
that a boy in danger was necessarily a bad boy needing 
instant reprimand. 

Lambert chided him roundly. 

“I thought it was all over with you, you careless fellow! 
Why don’t you look where you are going? Not content 
with sitting on all the old ladies’ laps, you must make a Jug¬ 
gernaut of every ice-boat that comes along. We shall have 
to hand you over to the aanspreekers yet, if you don’t look 
out!” 

“Please don’t,” said Ben, with mock humility—then see¬ 
ing how pale Lambert’s lips were, added in a low tone: 

“I do believe I thought more in that one moment, Van 
Mounen, than in all the rest of my past life.” 

There was no reply, and, for a while, the two boys skated 
on in silence. 

Soon a faint sound of distant bells reached their ears. 

“Hark!” said Ben, “what is that?” 

“The carillons,” replied Lambert. “They are trying the 
bells in the chapel of yonder village. Ah! Ben, you should 
hear the chimes of the ‘New Church’ at Delft; they are 
superb—nearly five hundred sweet-toned bells, and one of 
the best carilloneurs of Holland to play upon them. Hard 
work, though; they say the fellow often has to go to bed 
from positive exhaustion, after his performances. You see, 



On the Canal 


135 


the bells are attached to a kind of keyboard, something like 
they have on piano-fortes; there are also a set of pedals for 
the feet; when a brisk tune is going on, the player looks like 
a kicking frog fastened to his seat with a skewer.” 

“For shame,” said Ben, indignantly. 

Peter had, for the present, exhausted his stock of Haar¬ 
lem anecdotes, and now, having nothing to do but to skate, 
he and his three companions were hastening to “catch up” 
with Lambert and Ben. 

“That English lad is fleet enough,” said Peter; “if he 
were a born Hollander he could do no better. Generally 
these John Bulls make but a sorry figure on skates—Hollo! 
Here you are, Van Mounen; why, we hardly hoped for the 
honor of meeting you again. Who were you flying from in 
such haste?” 

4 4 Snails, ’ ’ retorted Lambert. ‘ 4 What kept you ? 9 9 

“We have been talking—and, besides, we halted once to 
give Poot a chance to rest.” 

“He begins to look rather worn out,” said Lambert in a 
low voice. 

Just then a beautiful ice-boat with reefed sail, and flying 
streamers, swept leisurely by. Its deck was filled with chil¬ 
dren muffled up to their chins. Looking at them from the ice 
you could see only smiling little faces imbedded in bright- 
colored, woolen wrappings. They were singing a chorus in 
honor of Saint Nicholas. The music, starting in the discord 
of a hundred childish voices, floated, as it rose, into exqui¬ 
site harmony: 



136 


Hans Brinker 


Friend of sailors, and of children! 

Double claim have we, 

As in youthful joy we ’re sailing, 

O ’er a frozen sea! 

Nicholas! Saint Nicholas! 
Let us sing to thee. 


While through wintry air we ’re rushing, 
As our voices blend, 

Are you near us ? Do you hear us, 
Nicholas, our friend? 

Nicholas! Saint Nicholas! 
Love can never end. 


Sunny sparkles, bright before us, 

Chase away the cold! 

Hearts where sunny thoughts are welcome 
Never can grow old— 

Nicholas! Saint Nicholas!— 
Never can grow old! 

Pretty gift and loving lesson, 

Festival and glee, 

Bid us thank thee as we ’re sailing 
0 ’er the frozen sea— 

Nicholas! Saint Nicholas! 

So we sing to thee! 




JACOB POOT CHANGES THE PLAN 

The last note died away in the distance. Our boys, who 
in their vain efforts to keep up with the boat, had felt that 
they were skating backward, turned to look at one another. 

“How beautiful that was!” exclaimed Van Mounen. 

“Just like a dream!” said Ludwig. 

Jacob drew close to Ben, giving his usual approving nod, 
as he spoke: 

“Dat ish goot. Dat ish te pest vay —I shay petter to take 
to Leyden mit a poat!” 

“Take a boat!” exclaimed Ben, in dismay—“why, man, 
our plan was to skate, not to be carried like little children 

“Tuyfels!” retorted Jacob, “dat ish no little—no papies 
—to go for poat!” 

The boys laughed, but exchanged uneasy glances. It 
would be great fun to jump on an ice-boat, if they had a 
chance; but to abandon so shamefully their grand undertak¬ 
ing—who could think of such a thing? 

An animated discussion arose at once. 

Captain Peter brought his party to a halt. 

“Boys,” said he, “it strikes me that we should consult 
Jacob’s wishes in this matter. He started the excursion, 
you know.” 

“Pooh!” sneered Carl, throwing a contemptuous glance 
at Jacob, “who’s tired? We can rest all night at Leyden.” 

137 






138 


Hans Brinker 


Ludwig and Lambert looked anxious and disappointed. 
It was no slight thing to lose the credit of having skated all 
the way from Broek to the Hague, and back again; but both 
agreed that Jacob should decide the question. 

Good-natured, tired Jacob! He read the popular senti¬ 
ment at a glance. 

“Oh! no,” he said, in Dutch. “I was joking. We will 
skate, of course.” 

The boys gave a delighted shout, and started on again 
with renewed vigor— 

All but Jacob. He tried his best not to seem fatigued, 
and, by not saying a word, saved his breath and energy for 
the great business of skating. But in vain. Before long, 
the stout body grew heavier and heavier—the tottering 
limbs weaker and weaker. Worse than all, the blood, 
anxious to get far as possible from the ice, mounted to the 
puffy, good-natured cheeks, and made the roots of his thin, 
yellow hair glow into a fiery red. 

This kind of work is apt to summon vertigo, of whom 
good Hans Andersen writes—the same who hurls daring 
young hunters from the mountains, or spins them from the 
sharpest heights of the glaciers, or catches them as they 
tread the stepping-stones of the mountain torrent. 

Vertigo came, unseen, to Jacob. After tormenting him 
a while, with one touch sending a chill from head to foot, 
with the next, scorching every vein with fever, she made 
the canal rock and tremble beneath him, the white sails bow 
and spin as they passed, then cast him heavily upon the ice. 

“Hollo!” cried Van Mounen. “There goes Poot!” 

Ben sprang hastily forward. 

“Jacob! Jacob, are you hurt?” 

Peter and Carl were lifting him. The face was white 
enough now. It seemed like a dead face—even the good- 
natured look was gone. 

A crowd collected. Peter unbuttoned the poor boy’s 



Jacob Poot Changes the Plan 


139 


jacket, loosened his red tippet, and blew between the parted 
lips. 

“Stand off, good people!” he cried, 44 give him air!” 

44 Lay him down,” called out a woman from the crowd. 

44 Stand him upon his feet,” shouted another. 

44 Give him wine,” growled a stout fellow who was driving 
a loaded sled. 

44 Yes! yes, give him wine!” echoed everybody. 

Ludwig and Lambert shouted in concert: 

4 4 Wine! wine! Who has wine ? ’ 9 

A sleepy-eyed Dutchman began to fumble mysteriously 
under the heaviest of blue jackets, saying as he did so: 

“Not so much noise, young masters, not so much noise! 
The boy was a fool to faint off like a girl.” 

44 Wine, quick,” cried Peter who, with Ben’s help, was 
rubbing Jacob from head to foot. 

Ludwig stretched forth his hand imploringly toward the 
Dutchman, who with an air of great importance was still 
fumbling beneath the jacket. 

“Do hurry! He will die! Has any one else any wine?” 

44 He is dead!” said an awful voice from among the 
bystanders. 

This startled the Dutchman. 

44 Have a care!” he said, reluctantly drawing forth a 
small blue flask, 44 this is schnaps. A little is enough.” 

A little was enough. The paleness gave way to a faint 
flush. Jacob opened his eyes, and—half bewildered, half 
ashamed,—feebly tried to free himself from those who were 
supporting him. 

There was no alternative, now, for our party but to have 
their exhausted comrade carried, in some way, to Leyden. 
As for expecting him to skate any more that day, the thing 
was impossible. In truth, by this time each boy began to 
entertain secret yearnings toward ice-boats, and to avow a 
Spartan resolve not to desert Jacob. Fortunately a gentle, 



140 


Hans Brinker 


steady breeze was setting southward. If some accommo¬ 
dating schipper 1 would but come along, matters would not 
be quite so bad after all. 

Peter hailed the first sail that appeared; the men in the 
stern would not even look at him. Three drays on runners 
came along, but they were already loaded to the utmost. 
Then an ice-boat, a beautiful, tempting little one, whizzed 
past like an arrow. The boys had just time to stare eagerly 
at it when it was gone. In despair, they resolved to prop 
up Jacob with their strong arms, as well as they could, and 
take him to the nearest village. 

At that moment a very shabby ice-boat came in sight. 
With but little hope of success, Peter hailed it, at the same 
time taking off his hat and flourishing it in the air. 

The sail was lowered, then came the scraping sound of 
the brake, and a pleasant voice called out from the deck: 

“What now?” 

“Will you take us on?” cried Peter hurrying with his 
companions as fast as he could, for the boat was “bringing 
to” some distance ahead, “will you take us on?” 

“We’ll pay for the ride!” shouted Carl. 

The man on board scarcely noticed him except to mutter 
something about its not being a trekschuit. Still looking 
toward Peter he asked: 

“How many?” 

“Six.” 

“Well, it’s Nicholas’ day—up with you! Young gentle¬ 
man sick?” (nodding toward Jacob). 

“Yes—broken down—skated all the way from Broek,” 
answered Peter—“Do you go to Leyden?” 

“That’s as the wind says—It’s blowing that way now— 
Scramble up!” 

Poor Jacob! if that willing Mrs. Poot had only appeared 
just then, her services would have been invaluable. It was 


(1) Skipper. Master of a small trading vessel,—a pleasure-boat or ice-boat. 




Jacob Poot Changes the Plan 


141 


as much as the boys could do to hoist him into the boat. All 
were in at last. The schipper, puffing away at his pipe, let 
out the sail, lifted the brake, and sat in the stern with folded 
arms. 

“Whew! How fast we go!” cried Ben. “This is some¬ 
thing like! Feel better, Jacob ?” 

“Much petter, I tanks you.” 

“Oh, you’ll be as good as new in ten minutes. This makes 
a fellow feel like a bird.” 

Jacob nodded, and blinked his eyes. 

“Don’t go to sleep, Jacob; it’s too cold. You might never 
wake up, you know. Persons often freeze to death in that 
way.” 

“I no sleep,” said Jacob confidently—and in two min¬ 
utes he was snoring. 

Carl and Ludwig laughed. 

“We must wake him!” cried Ben; “it is dangerous, I tell 
you,—Jacob! Ja-a-c-’ ’ 

Captain Peter interfered, for three of the boys were help¬ 
ing Ben for the fun of the thing. 

“Nonsense! don’t shake him! Let him alone, boys. One 
never snores like that when one’s freezing. Cover him up 
with something. Here, this cloak will do; hey, schipper?” 
and he looked toward the stern for permission to use it. 

The man nodded. 

“There,” said Peter, tenderly adjusting the garment, 
“let him sleep. He will be frisky as a lamb when he wakes. 
How far are we from Leyden, schipper?” 

“Not more’n a couple of pipes,” replied a voice, rising 
from the smoke like the genii in fairy tales (puff:! puff!), 
“likely not more’n one an’ a half (puff! puff!) if this wind 
holds!” (puff! puff! puff!). 

“What is the man saying, Lambert?” asked Ben, who 
was holding his mittened hands against his cheeks to ward 
off the cutting air. 

“He says we’re about two pipes from Leyden. Half the 



142 


Hans Brinker 


boors here on the canal measure distances by the time it 
takes them to finish a pipe.” 

6 ‘How ridiculous.” 

“See here, Benjamin Dobbs,” retorted Lambert, growing 
unaccountably indignant at Ben’s quiet smile; “see here, 
you’ve a way of calling every other thing you see on this 
side of the German ocean, ‘ridiculous.’ It may suit you, 
this word, but it don’t suit me . When you want anything 
ridiculous just remember your English custom of making 
the Lord Mayor of London, at his installation, count the 
nails in a horseshoe to prove his learning.” 

“Who told you we had any such custom as that?” cried 
Ben, looking grave in an instant. 

“Why, I know it, no use of any one telling me. It’s in 
all the books—and it’s true. It strikes me,” continued 
Lambert, laughing in spite of himself, “that you have been 
kept in happy ignorance of a good many ridiculous things 
on your side of the map.” 

“Humph!” exclaimed Ben, trying not to smile. “I’ll 
inquire into that Lord Mayor business when I get home. 
There must be some mistake. B-r-r-roooo! How fast we’re 
going. This is glorious!” 

It was a grand sail, or ride, I scarce know which to call 
it; perhaps “fly” would be the best word; for the boys felt 
very much as Sinbad did when, tied to the roc’s leg, he 
darted through the clouds; or as Bellerophon felt when he 
shot through the air on the back of his winged horse 
Pegasus. 

Sailing, riding, or flying, whichever it was, everything 
was rushing past, backward—and, before they had time to 
draw a long breath, Leyden itself, with its high peaked- 
roofs, flew half-way to meet them. 

When the city came in sight it was high time to waken 
the sleeper. That feat accomplished, Peter’s prophecy 
came to pass. Master Jacob was quite restored and in excel¬ 
lent spirits. 



Jacob Poot Changes the Plan 


143 


The schipper made a feeble remonstrance when Peter, 
with hearty thanks, endeavored to slip some silver pieces 
into his tough, brown palm. 

“Ye see, young master,” said he, drawing away his hand, 
“the regular line o’ trade’s one thing, and a favor’s 
another.” 

“I know it,” said Peter, “but those boys and girls of 
yours will want sweets when you get home. Buy them some 
in the name of Saint Nicholas.” 

The man grinned. “Aye, true enough. I’ve young ’uns 
in plenty, a clean boat-load of them. You are a sharp young 
master at guessing.” 

This time, the knotty hand hitched forward again, quite 
carelessly, it seemed, but its palm was upward. Peter 
hastily dropped in the money and moved away. 

The sail soon came tumbling down. Scrape, scrape went 
the brake, scattering an ice shower round the boat. 

“Good-bye, schipper!” shouted the boys, seizing their 
skates and leaping from the deck one by one, “many thanks 
to you!” 

“Good-bye! good-b- Hold! here! stop! I want my 

coat.” 

Ben was carefully assisting his cousin over the side of 
the boat. 

“What is the man shouting about? Oh, I know, you have 
his wrapper round your shoulders!” 

“Dat ish true,” answered Jacob, half jumping, half tum¬ 
bling down upon the framework, “dat ish vot make him 
sho heavy.” 

“Made you so heavy, you mean, Poot?” 

“Ya, made you sho heavy—dat ish true,” said Jacob 
innocently, as he worked himself free from the big wrap¬ 
per; “dere, now you hands it mit him straits way and tells 
him I voz much tanks for dat.” 

“Ho! for an inn!” cried Peter, as they stepped into the 
city. “Be brisk, my fine fellows!” 





MYNHEER KLEEF AND HIS BILL OF FARE 

The boys soon found an unpretending establishment 
near the Breedstraat (Broad Street) with a funnily painted 
lion over the door. This was the Roode Leeuw or Red 
Lion, kept by one Huygens Kleef, a stout Dutchman with 
short legs and a very long pipe. 

By this time they were in a ravenous condition. The 
tiffin, taken at Haarlem, had served only to give them an 
appetite, and this had been heightened by their exercise, 
and swift sail upon the canal. 

“Come, mine host! give us what you can!” cried Peter 
rather pompously. 

“I can give you anything—everything,” answered 
Mynheer Kleef, performing a difficult bow. 

“Well, give us sausage and pudding.” 

144 








































Mynheer Kleef and His Bill of Fare 


145 


“Ah, mynheer, the sausage is all gone. There is no 
pudding.’ ’ 

“Salmagundi, then, and plenty of it.” 

“That is out also, young master.” 

“Eggs, and be quick.” 

“Winter eggs are very poor eating,” answered the inn¬ 
keeper, puckering his lips, and lifting his eyebrows. 

“No eggs? well—caviare.” 

The Dutchman raised his fat hands: 

“Caviare! That is made of gold! Who has caviare to 
sell?” 

Peter had sometimes eaten it at home; he knew that it 
was made of the roe of the sturgeon, and certain other 
large fish, but he had no idea of its cost. 

“Well, mine host, what have you?” 

“What have I? Everything. I have rye-bread, sour- 
krout, potato-salad and the fattest herring in Leyden.” 

“What do you say, boys?” asked the captain; “will 
that do?” 

“Yes,” cried the famished youths, “if he’ll only be 
quick.” 

Mynheer moved off like one walking in his sleep, but soon 
opened his eyes wide at the miraculous manner in which his 
herring were made to disappear. Next came, or rather 
went, potato-salad, rye-bread and coffee—then Utrecht 
water flavored with orange, and, finally, slices of dry gin¬ 
gerbread. This last delicacy was not on the regular bill of 
fare; but Mynheer Kleef, driven to extremes, solemnly pro¬ 
duced it from his own private stores, and gave only a placid 
blink when his voracious young travelers started up, declar¬ 
ing they had eaten enough. 

“I should think so!” he exclaimed internally, but his 
smooth face gave no sign. 

Softly rubbing his hands, he asked: 

“Will your worships have beds?” 



146 


Hans Brinker 


“Will your worships have beds?” mocked Carl—“what 
do you mean? Do we look sleepy?” 

“Not at all, master; but I would cause them to be warmed 
and aired. None sleep under damp sheets at the Red Lion.” 

“Ah, I understand. Shall we come back here to sleep, 
captain?” 

Peter was accustomed to finer lodgings; but this was a 
frolic. 

“Why not?” he replied; “we can fare excellently here.” 

“Your worship speaks only the truth,” said mynheer 
with great deference. 

“How fine to be called ‘your worship,’ ” laughed Ludwig 
aside to Lambert, while Peter replied: 

“Well, mine host, you may get the rooms ready by nine.” 

“I have one beautiful chamber, with three beds, that will 
hold all of your worships,” said Mynheer Kleef coaxingly. 

“That will do.” 

“Whew!” whistled Carl when they reached the street. 

Ludwig started. “What now?” 

“Nothing—only Mynheer Kleef of the Red Lion little 
thinks how we shall make things spin in that same room 
to-night—We’ll set the bolsters flying!” 

“Order!” cried the captain. “Now, boys, I must seek 
this great Dr. Boekman before I sleep. If he is in Leyden 
it will be no great task to find him, for he always puts up at 
the Golden Eagle when he comes here. I wonder that you 
did not all go to bed at once—Still, as you are awake, what 
say you to walking with Ben up by the Museum or the 
Stadhuis?” 

“Agreed,” said Ludwig and Lambert; but Jacob pre¬ 
ferred to go with Peter. In vain Ben tried to persuade him 
to remain at the Inn and rest. He declared that he never 
felt “petter,” and wished of all things to take a look at the 
city, for it was his first “stop mit Leyden.” 

“Oh, it will not harm him,” said Lambert. “How long 



Mynheer Kleef and His Bill of Fare 


147 


the day has been—and what glorious sport we have had. 
It hardly seems possible that we left Broek only this 
morning.” 

Jacob yawned. 

“I have enjoyed it well,” he said, “but it seems to me at 
least a week since we started.” 

Carl laughed, and muttered something about “twenty 
naps-” 

“Here we are at the corner; remember, we all meet at the 
Red Lion at eight,” said the captain, as he and Jacob 
walked away. 




THE RED LION BECOMES DANGEROUS 

The boys were glad to find a blazing fire awaiting them 
upon their return to the 44 Red Lion.” Carl and his party 
were there first. Soon afterward Peter and Jacob came in. 
They had inquired in vain concerning Dr. Boekman. All 
they could ascertain was that he had been seen in Haarlem 
that morning. 

“As for his being in Leyden,” the landlord of the Golden 
Eagle had said to Peter, “the thing is impossible. He 
always lodges here when in town. By this time there would 
be a crowd at my door waiting to consult him—Bah! people 
make such fools of themselves!” 

“He is called a great surgeon,” said Peter. 

“Yes, the greatest in Holland. But what of that? What 
of being the greatest pill-choker and knife-slasher in the 
world? The man is a bear. Only last month on this very 
spot, he called me a pig, before three customers!” 

“No!” exclaimed Peter, trying to look surprised and 
indignant. 

“Yes. master —a pig,” repeated the landlord, puffing at 

148 









The Red Lion Becomes Dangerous 


149 


his pipe with an injured air. “Bah! if he did not pay fine 
prices and bring customers to my house I would sooner see 
him in the Yleit canal than give him lodgment.” 

Perhaps mine host felt that he was speaking too openly 
to a stranger, or it may be he saw a smile lurking in Peter’s 
face, for he added sharply: 

‘ 1 Come, now, what more do you wish ? Supper ? Beds ? ’ ’ 

“No, mynheer, I am but searching for Dr. Boeckman.” 

“Go find him. He is not in Leyden.” 

Peter was not to be put off so easily. After receiving a 
few more rough words, he succeeded in obtaining permis¬ 
sion to leave a note for the famous surgeon, or rather, he 
bought from his amiable landlord the privilege of writing it 
there, and a promise that it should be promptly delivered 
when Dr. Boekman arrived. This accomplished, Peter and 
Jacob returned to the “Bed Lion.” 

This inn had once been a fine house, the home of a rich 
burgher; but, having grown old and shabby, it had passed 
through many hands, until finally it had fallen into the pos¬ 
session of Mynheer Kleef. He was fond of saying as he 
looked up at its dingy, broken walls—“mend it, and paint 
it, and there’s not a prettier house in Leyden.” It stood six 
stories high from the street. The first three were of equal 
breadth but of various heights, the last three were in the 
great, high roof, and grew smaller and smaller like a set 
of double steps until the top one was lost in a point. The 
roof was built of short, shining tiles, and the windows, with 
their little panes, seemed to be scattered irregularly over 
the face of the building, without the slightest attention to 
outward effect. But the public room on the ground floor was 
the landlord’s joy and pride. He never said “mend it, and 
paint it,” there, for everything was in the highest condi¬ 
tion of Dutch neatness and order. If you will but open 
your mind’s eye you may look into the apartment. 

Imagine a large, bare room, with a floor that seemed to 
be made of squares cut out of glazed earthen pie-dishes, 



150 


Hans Brinker 


first a yellow piece, then a red, until the whole looked like 
a vast checker-board. Fancy a dozen high-backed wooden 
chairs standing around; then a great hollow chimney-place 
all aglow with its blazing fire, reflected a hundred times in 
the polished steel fire-dogs; a tiled hearth, tiled sides, tiled 
top, with a Dutch sentence upon it; and over all, high above 
one’s head, a narrow mantel-shelf, filled with shining brass 
candlesticks, pipe-lighters and tinder-boxes. Then see in 
one end of the room, three pine tables; in the other, a closet 
and a deal dresser. The latter is filled with mugs, dishes, 
pipes, tankards, earthen and glass bottles, and is guarded 
at one end by a brass-hooped keg standing upon long legs. 
Everything dim with tobacco smoke, but otherwise clean as 
soap and sand can make it. Next picture two sleepy, 
shabby-looking men, in wooden shoes, seated near the glow¬ 
ing fireplace, hugging their knees and smoking short, 
stumpy pipes; Mynheer Kleef walking softly and heavily 
about, clad in leather knee breeches, felt shoes and a green 
jacket wider than it is long:—then throw a heap of skates 
in the corner, and put six tired, well-dressed boys, in various 
attitudes, upon the wooden chairs, and you will see the cof¬ 
fee-room of the “Red Lion” just as it appeared at nine 
o’clock on the evening of December 6th, 184—. For supper, 
gingerbread again; slices of Dutch sausage, rye-bread 
sprinkled with anise-seed; pickles; a bottle of Utrecht 
water, and a pot of very mysterious coffee. The boys were 
ravenous enough to take all they could get, and pronounce 
it excellent. Ben made wry faces, but Jacob declared he 
had never eaten a better meal. After they had laughed and 
talked a while, and counted their money by way of settling 
a discussion that arose concerning their expenses, the cap¬ 
tain marched his company off to bed, led on by a greasy 
pioneer-boy who carried skates and a candlestick instead of 
an axe. 

One of the ill-favored men by the fire had shuffled toward 
the dresser, and was ordering a mug of beer, just as Lud- 



The Red Lion Becomes Dangerous 


151 


wig, who brought up the rear, was stepping from the 
apartment. 

“I don’t like that fellow’s eye,” he whispered to Carl; 
“he looks like a pirate, or something of that kind.” 

“Looks like a granny!” answered Carl in sleepy disdain. 

Ludwig laughed uneasily. 

“Granny or no granny,” he whispered, “I tell you he 
looks just like one of those men in the ‘voetspoelen.’ ” 

“Pooh!” sneered Carl, “I knew it. That picture was too 
much for you. Look sharp now, and see if yon fellow with 
the candle doesn’t look like the other villain.” 

“No, indeed, his face is as honest as a Gouda cheese. But, 
I say, Carl, that really was a horrid picture.” 

“Humph! What did you stare at it so long for?” 

“I couldn’t help it.” 

By this time the boys had reached the “beautiful room 
with three beds in it.” A dumpy little maiden with long 
earrings met them at the doorway, dropped them a cour¬ 
tesy, and passed out. She carried a long-handled thing that 
resembled a frying-pan with a cover. 

“I am glad to see that,” said Van Mounen to Ben. 

“What?” 

“Why, the warming-pan. It’s full of hot ashes; she’s 
been heating our beds.” 

“Oh! a warming-pan, eh! Much obliged to her, I’m 
sure,” said Ben, too sleepy to make any further comment. 

Meantime, Ludwig still talked of the picture that had 
made such a strong impression upon him. He had seen it 
in a shop window during their walk. It was a poorly- 
painted thing, representing two men tied back to back, 
standing on shipboard, surrounded by a group of seamen 
who were preparing to cast them together into the sea. This 
mode of putting prisoners to death was called voetspoelen, 
or feet-washing, and was practised by the Dutch upon the 
pirates of Dunkirk in 1605; and, again, by the Spaniards 
upon the Dutch, in the horrible massacre that followed the 



152 


Hans Brinker 


siege of Haarlem. Bad as the painting was, the expression 
upon the pirates’ faces was well given. Sullen and despair¬ 
ing as they seemed, they wore such a cruel, malignant 
aspect, that Ludwig had felt a secret satisfaction in con¬ 
templating their helpless condition. He might have for¬ 
gotten the scene by this time but for that ill-looking man by 
the fire. Now, while he capered about, boy-like, and threw 
himself with an antic into his bed, he inwardly hoped that 
the “voetspoelen” would not haunt his dreams. 

It was a cold, cheerless room; a fire had been newly 
kindled in the burnished stove, and seemed to shiver even 
while it was trying to burn. The windows, with their funny 
little panes, were bare and shiny, and the cold, waxed floor 
looked like a sheet of yellow ice. Three rush-bottomed 
chairs stood stiffly against the wall, alternating with three 
narrow wooden bedsteads that made the room look like the 
deserted ward of a hospital. At any other time the boys 
would have found it quite impossible to sleep in pairs, espe¬ 
cially in such narrow quarters ; but to-night they lost all 
fear of being crowded, and longed only to lay their weary 
bodies upon the feather beds that lay lightly upon each cot. 
Had the boys been in Germany instead of Holland they 
might have been covered, also, by a bed of down or feathers. 
This peculiar form of luxury was at that time adopted only 
by wealthy or eccentric Hollanders. 

Ludwig, as we have seen, had not quite lost his friski¬ 
ness ; but the other boys, after one or two feeble attempts 
at pillow-firing, composed themselves for the night with the 
greatest dignity. Nothing like fatigue for making boys 
behave themselves. 

“Good-night, boys!” said Peter’s voice from under the 
covers. 

“Good-night,” called back everybody but Jacob, who 
already lay snoring beside the captain. 

“I say,” shouted Carl, after a moment, “don’t sneeze, 
anybody. Ludwig’s in a fright!” 



The Red Lion Becomes Dangerous 


153 


“No such thing/’ retorted Ludwig in a smothered voice. 
Then there was a little whispered dispute, which was 
ended by Carl saying: 

“For my part, I don’t know what fear is. But you really 
are a timid fellow, Ludwig.” 

Ludwig grunted sleepily, but made no further reply. 


It was the middle of the night. The fire had shivered 
itself to death, and, in place of its gleams, little squares of 
moonlight lay upon the floor, slowly, slowly shifting their 
way across the room. Something else was moving also, but 
they did not see it. Sleeping boys keep but a poor lookout. 
During the early hours of the night, Jacob Poot had been 
gradually but surely winding himself with all the bed 
covers. He now lay like a monster chrysalis beside the half- 
frozen Peter, who, accordingly, was skating with all his 
might over the coldest, bleakest of dreamland icebergs. 

Something else, I say, besides the moonlight, was moving 
across the bare, polished floor—moving not quite so slowly, 
but quite as stealthily. 

Wake up, Ludwig! The voetspoelen pirate is growing 
real! 

No. Ludwig does not waken, but he moans in his sleep. 

Does not Carl hear it—Carl the brave, the fearless ? 

No. Carl is dreaming of the race. 

And Jacob ? Van Mounen ? Ben ? 

Not they. They, too, are dreaming of the race; and 
Katrinka is singing through their dreams—laughing, flit¬ 
ting past them; now and then a wave from the great organ 
surges through their midst. 

Still the thing moves, slowly, slowly. 

Peter! Captain Peter, there is danger! 

Peter heard no call; but, in his dream, he slid a few thou¬ 
sand feet from one iceberg to another, and the shock awoke 

him. 

Whew! How cold he was! He gave a hopeless, des- 




154 


Hans Brinker 


perate tug at the chrysalis. In vain; sheet, blanket and 
spread were firmly wound about Jacob’s inanimate form. 
Peter looked drowsily toward the window. 

“Clear moonlight,” he thought; “we shall have pleasant 
weather to-morrow. Hollo! what’s that*?” 

He saw the moving thing, or rather something black 
crouching upon the floor, for it had halted as Peter stirred. 

He watched in silence. 

Soon it moved again, nearer and nearer. It was a man 
crawling upon hands and feet! 

The captain’s first impulse was to call out; but he took 
an instant to consider matters. 

The creeper had a shining knife in one hand. This was 
ugly; but Peter was naturally self-possessed. When the 
head turned, Peter’s eyes were closed as if in sleep; but at 
other times nothing could be keener, sharper than the cap¬ 
tain’s gaze. 

Closer, closer crept the robber. His back was very near 
Peter now. The knife was laid softly upon the floor, one 
careful arm reached forth stealthily to drag the clothes 
from the chair by the captain’s bed—the robbery was com¬ 
menced. 

Now was Peter’s time! Holding his breath, he sprang up 
and leaped with all his strength upon the robber’s back, 
stunning the rascal with the force of the blow. To seize the 
knife was but a second’s work. The robber began to strug¬ 
gle, but Peter sat like a giant astride the prostrate form. 

“If you stir,” said the brave boy in as terrible a voice as 
he could command, “stir but one inch, I will plunge this 
knife into your neck. Boys! Boys! Wake up!” he shouted, 
still pressing down the black head, and holding the knife at 
pricking distance, “give us a hand! I’ve got him! I’ve got 
him!” 

The chrysalis rolled over, but made no other sign. 

“Up, hoys!” cried Peter, never budging. “Ludwig! 
Lambert! Thunder! Are you all dead ? ’ ’ 



The Red Lion Becomes Dangerous 


155 


Dead! not they. Van Mounen and Ben were on their feet 
in an instant. 

‘ ‘ Hey ? What now ? ’ 9 they shouted. 

“I’ve got a robber here,” said Peter, coolly. “ (Lie still, 
you scoundrel, or I’ll slice your head off!) Now, boys, cut 
out your bed cord—plenty of time—he’s a dead man if he 
stirs.” 

Peter felt that he weighed a thousand pounds. So he 
did, with that knife in his hand. 

The man growled and swore, but dared not move. 

Ludwig was up, by this time. He had a great jack-knife, 
the pride of his heart, in his breeches pocket. It could do 
good service now. They bared the bedstead in a moment. 
It was laced backward and forward with a rope. 

“I’ll cut it,” cried Ludwig, sawing away at the knot; 
“hold him tight, Pete!” 

“Never fear!” answered the captain, giving the robber 
a warning prick. 

The boys were soon pulling at the rope like good fellows. 
It was out at last—a long, stout piece. 

“Now, boys,” commanded the captain, “lift up his ras¬ 
cally arms! Cross his hands over his back! That’s right— 
excuse me for being in the way—tie them tight!” 

“Yes, and his feet too, the villain!” cried the boys in 
great excitement, tying knot after knot with Herculean 
jerks. 

The prisoner changed his tone. 

“Oh—oh!” he moaned, “spare a poor sick man—I was 
but walking in my sleep.” 

“Ugh!” grunted Lambert, still tugging away at the rope, 
“asleep, were you? well, we’ll wake you up.” 

The man muttered fierce oaths between his teeth—then 
cried in a piteous voice, “Unbind me, good young masters! 
I have five little children at home. By Saint Bavon I swear 
to give you each a ten-guilder piece if you will but free 
me!” 



156 


Hans Brinker 


44 Ha! ha!” laughed Peter. 

44 Ha! ha!” laughed the other boys. 

Then came threats—threats that made Ludwig fairly 
shudder, though he continued to bind and tie with redoubled 
energy. 

44 Hold up! mynheer house-breaker,” said Van Mounen 
in a warning voice. 4 4 That knife is very near your throat. 
If you make the captain nervous, there is no telling what 
may happen.” 

The robber took the hint, and fell into a sullen silence. 

Just at that moment the chrysalis upon the bed stirred 
and sat erect. 

44 What’s the matter?” he asked, without opening his 
eyes. 

4< Matter!” echoed Ludwig, half trembling, half laughing, 
44 get up, Jacob. Here’s work for you. Come sit on this 
fellow’s back while we get into our clothes: we’re half 
perished.” 

44 What fellow? Donder!” 

4 4 Hurrah for Poot!” cried all the boys, as Jacob sliding 
quickly to the floor, bedclothes and all, took in the state of 
affairs at a glance, and sat heavily beside Peter on the 
robber’s back. 

Oh, didn’t the fellow groan, then! 

44 No use in holding him down any longer, boys,” said 
Peter, rising, but bending as he did so to draw a pistol from 
his man’s belt. 44 You see, I’ve been keeping guard over 
this pretty little weapon for the last ten minutes. It’s 
cocked and the least wriggle might have set it off. No 
danger now. I must dress myself. You and I, Lambert, 
will go for the police. I’d no idea it was so cold.” 

44 Where is Carl?” asked one of the boys. 

They looked at one another. Carl certainly was not 
among them. 

44 Oh!” cried Ludwig, frightened at last, 44 where is he? 
Perhaps he’s had a fight with the robber, and got killed.” 



The Red Lion Becomes Dangerous 


157 


“Not a bit of it,” said Peter quietly, as he buttoned his 
stout jacket. “Look under the beds.” 

They did so. Carl was not there. 

Just then they heard a commotion on the stairway. Ben 
hastened to open the door. The landlord almost tumbled 
in; he was armed with a big blunderbuss. Two or three 
lodgers followed; then the daughter, with an upraised f ry- 
ingpan in one hand, and a candle in the other; and, behind 
her, looking pale and frightened, the gallant Carl! 

“There’s your man, mine host,” said Peter, nodding 
toward the prisoner. 

Mine host raised his blunderbuss, the girl screamed, and 
Jacob, more nimble than usual, rolled quickly from the 
robber’s back. 

“Don’t fire,” cried Peter; “he is tied, hand and foot. 
Let’s roll him over, and see what he looks like.” 

Carl stepped briskly forward, with a blustering “Yes. 
We'll turn him over, in a way he won’t like. Lucky we’ve 
caught him!” 

“Ha! ha!” laughed Ludwig, “where were you, Master 
Carl?” 

“Where was I?” retorted Carl, angrily: “why, I went to 
give the alarm, to be sure!” 

All the boys exchanged glances; but they were too happy 
and elated to say anything ill-natured. Carl certainly was 
bold enough now. He took the lead while three others 
aided him in turning the helpless man. 

While the robber lay, face up, scowling and muttering, 
Ludwig took the candlestick from the girl’s hand. 

“I must have a good look at the beauty,” he said, draw¬ 
ing closer, but the words were no sooner spoken than he 
turned pale and started so violently that he almost dropped 
the candle. 

“The voetspoelen!” he cried; “why, boys, it’s the man 
who sat by the fire!” 

“Of course it is,” answered Peter; “we counted our 



158 


Hans Brinker 


money before him like simpletons. But what have we to 
do with voetspoelen, brother Ludwig? A month in jail is 
punishment enough.” 

The landlord’s daughter had left the room. She now ran 
in, holding up a pair of huge wooden shoes. “See, father,” 
she cried, “here are his great ugly boats. It’s the man that 
we put in the next room after the young masters went to 
bed. Ah! it was wrong to send the poor young gentlemen 
up here so far out of sight and sound.” 

“The scoundrel!” hissed the landlord, “he has disgraced 
my house. I go for the police at once!” 

In less than fifteen minutes two drowsy looking officers 
were in the room. After telling Mynheer Kleef that he 
must appear early in the morning with the boys and make 
his complaint before a magistrate, they marched off with 
their prisoner. 

One would think the captain and his band could have 
slept no more that night; but the mooring has not yet been 
found that can prevent youth and an easy conscience from 
drifting down the river of dreams. The boys were too much 
fatigued to let so slight a thing as capturing a robber bind 
them to wakefulness. They were soon in bed again, floating 
away to strange scenes made of familiar things. Ludwig 
and Carl had spread their bedding upon the floor. One had 
already forgotten the voetspoelen, the race—everything; 
but Carl was wide awake. He heard the carillons ringing 
out their solemn nightly music, and the watchman’s noisy 
clapper putting in discord at the quarter-hours; he saw the 
moonshine glide away from the window, and the red morn¬ 
ing light come pouring in, and all the while he kept 
thinking: 

“Pooh! what a goose I have made of myself!” 

Carl Schummel, alone, with none to look or to listen, was 
not quite so grand a fellow as Carl Schummel strutting 
about in his boots. 




BEFORE THE COURT 

You may believe the landlord’s daughter bestirred her¬ 
self to prepare a good meal for the boys next morning. 
Mynheer had a Chinese gong that could make more noise 
than a dozen of breakfast bells. Its hideous reveille, clang¬ 
ing through the house, generally startled the drowsiest 
lodgers into activity, but the maiden would not allow it to 
be sounded this morning: 

“Let the brave young gentlemen sleep,” she said, to the 
greasy kitchen boy; “they shall be warmly fed when they 
waken.” 

It was ten o’clock when Captain Peter and his band came 
straggling down one by one. 

“A pretty hour,” said mine host, gruffly. “It is high 
time we were before the court. Fine business this for a 

159 
















160 


Hans Brinker 


respectable inn. You will testify truly, young masters, that 
you found most excellent fare and lodgment at the Red 
Lion?” 

“Of course we will,” answered Carl, saucily, “and pleas¬ 
ant company, too, though they visit at rather unseasonable 
hours.” 

A stare and a “humph!” was all the answer Mynheer 
made to this, but the daughter was more communicative. 
Shaking her earrings at Carl she said sharply: 

“Not so very pleasant either, master traveler, if one could 
judge by the way you ran away from it!” 

“Impertinent creature!” hissed Carl under his breath, 
as he began busily to examine his skate-straps. Meantime 
the kitchen-boy, listening outside at the crack of the door, 
doubled himself with silent laughter. 

After breakfast the boys went to the Police Court, accom¬ 
panied by Huygens Kleef and his daughter. Mynheer’s 
testimony was principally to the effect that such a thing as 
a robber at the “Red Lion” had been unheard of until last 
night; and as for the “Red Lion,” it was a most respectable 
inn, as respectable as any house in Leyden. Each boy, in 
turn, told all he knew of the affair, and identified the pris¬ 
oner in the box as the same man who entered their room in 
the dead of night. Ludwig was surprised to find that the 
robber was a man of ordinary size—especially after he had 
described him, under oath, to the Court as a tremendous 
fellow, with great square shoulders, and legs of prodigious 
weight. Jacob swore that he was awakened by the robber 
kicking and threshing upon the floor; and, immediately 
afterward, Peter and the rest (feeling sorry that they had 
not explained the matter to their sleepy comrade) testified 
that the man had not moved a muscle from the moment the 
point of the dagger touched his throat, until, bound from 
head to foot, he was rolled over for inspection. The land¬ 
lord’s daughter made one boy blush, and all the court smile, 



Before the Court 


161 


by declaring that, “if it hadn’t been for that handsome 
young gentleman there” (pointing to Peter) they “might 
have all been murdered in their beds; for the dreadful man 
had a great, shining knife most as long as your honor’s 
arm,” and she believed “the handsome young gentleman 
had struggled hard enough to get it away from him, but he 
was too modest, bless him! to say so.” 

Finally, after a little questioning, and cross-questioning 
from the public Prosecutor the witnesses were dismissed, 
and the robber was handed over to the consideration of the 
Criminal Court. 

“The scoundrel!” said Carl, savagely, when the boys 
reached the street. “He ought to be sent to jail at once. 
If I had been in your place, Peter, I certainly should have 
killed him outright!” 

“He was fortunate, then, in falling into gentler hands,” 
was Peter’s quiet reply; “it appears he has been arrested 
before under a charge of house-breaking. He did not suc¬ 
ceed in robbing this time, but he broke the door-fastenings, 
and that I believe makes a burglary in the eye of the law. 
He was armed with a knife, too, and that makes it worse 
for him, poor fellow!” 

“Poor fellow!” mimicked Carl; “one would think he 
was your brother! ’ ’ 

“So he is my brother, and yours, too, Carl Schummel, for 
that matter,” answered Peter, looking into Carl’s eye. 
“We cannot say what we might have become under other 
circumstances. We have been bolstered up from evil, since 
the hour we were born. A happy home and good parents 
might have made that man a fine fellow instead of what 
he is. God grant that the law may cure and not crush 
him!” 

“Amen to that!” said Lambert, heartily, while Ludwig 
van Holp looked at his brother in such a bright, proud way 
that Jacob Poot, who was an only son, wished from his 



162 


Hans Brinker 


heart that the little form buried in the old church at home 
had lived to grow up beside him. 

“Humph!” said Carl, “it’s very well to be saintly and 
forgiving, and all that sort of thing, but I’m naturally hard. 
All these fine ideas seem to rattle off of me like hailstones— 
and it’s nobody’s business, either, if they do.” 

Peter recognized a touch of good feeling in this clumsy 
concession; holding out his hand, he said in a frank, hearty 
tone: 

“Come, lad, shake hands, and let us be good friends even 
if we don’t exactly agree on all questions.” 

“We do agree better than you think,” sulked Carl, as 
he returned Peter’s grasp. 

“All right,” responded Peter briskly. “Now Van 
Mounen, we await Benjamin’s wishes. Where would he 
like to go?” 

“To the Egyptian Museum,” answered Lambert, after 
holding a brief consultation with Ben. 

“That is on the Breede Straat. To the Museum let it be. 
Come, boys!” 




THE BELEAGUERED CITIES 

“This open square before us,” said Lambert, as he and 
Ben walked on together, “is pretty in summer, with its 
shady trees. They call it the Ruine. Years ago it was cov¬ 
ered with houses, and the Rapenburg Canal, here, ran 
through the street. Well, one day a barge loaded with forty 
thousand pounds of gunpowder, bound for Delft, was lying 
alongside, and the bargemen took a notion to cook their 
dinner on the deck; and before any one knew it, sir, the 
whole thing blew up, killing lots of persons and scattering 
about three hundred houses to the winds.” 

“What!” exclaimed Ben, “did the explosion destroy 
three hundred houses!” 

“Yes, sir, my father was in Leyden at the time. He says 
it was terrible. The explosion occurred just at noon, and 
was like a volcano. All this part of the town was on fire 
in an instant, buildings tumbling down, and men, women 
and children groaning under the ruins—The King himself 
came to the city and acted nobly, father says, staying out 
in the streets all night, encouraging the survivors in their 
efforts to arrest the fire, and rescue as many as possible 
from under the heaps of stone and rubbish. Through his 
means a collection for the benefit of the sufferers was raised 

163 





164 


Hans Drinker 


throughout the kingdom, besides a hundred thousand guild¬ 
ers paid out of the treasury. Father was only nineteen 
years old then; it was in 1807, I believe, but he remembers 
it perfectly. A friend of his, Professor Luzac, was among 
the killed. They have a tablet erected to his memory, in 
Saint Peter’s Church, further on—the queerest thing you 
ever saw—with an image of the professor carved upon it 
representing him just as he looked when he was found after 
the explosion.” 

“What a strange idea! Isn’t Boerhaave’s monument in 
Saint Peter’s also?” 

“I cannot remember. Perhaps Peter knows.” 

The captain delighted Ben by saying that the monument 
was there and that he thought they might be able to see it 
during the day. 

“Lambert,” continued Peter, “ask Ben if he saw Van 
der Werf’s portrait at the Town Hall last night?” 

“No,” said Lambert, “I can answer for him. It was too 
late to go in. I say, boys, it is really wonderful how much 
Ben knows. Why, he has told me a volume of Dutch his- 
toory already. I’ll wager he has the siege of Leyden at his 
tongue’& end.” 

“His tongue must burn then,” interposed Ludwig, “for 
if Bilderdyk’s account is true it was a pretty hot affair.” 

Ben was looking at them with an inquiring smile. 

“We are speaking of the siege of Leyden,” explained 
Lambert. 

“Oh, yes,” said Ben, eagerly, “I had forgotten all about 
it. This was the very place—Let’s give old Van der Werf 
three cheers—Hur ” 

Van Mounten uttered a hasty “hush!” and explained 
that, patriotic as the Dutch were, the police would soon have 
something to say if a party of boys cheered in the street at 
midday. 

“What! not cheer Van der Werf?” cried Ben, indig- 



The Beleaguered Cities 


165 


nantly. “One of the greatest chaps in history? Only think! 
Didn’t he hold out against those murderous Spaniards for 
months and months! There was the town, surrounded on 
all sides by the enemy; great black forts sending fire and 
death into the very heart of the city—but no surrender! 
Every man a hero—women and children, too, brave and 
fierce as lions—provisions giving out, the very grass from 
between the paving-stones gone—till people were glad to eat 
horses and cats and dogs and rats. Then came the Plague 
—hundreds dying in the streets—but no surrender! Then 
when they could bear no more—when the people, brave as 
they were, crowded about Van der Werf in the public 
square begging him to give up; what did the noble old 
burgomaster say:—‘I have sworn to defend this city, and 
with God’s help, I mean to do it! If my body can satisfy 
your hunger, take it, and divide it among you—but expect 
no surrender so long as I am alive’—Hurrah! hur ” 

Ben was getting uproarious; Lambert playfully clapped 
his hand over his friend’s mouth. The result was one of 
those quick india-rubber scuffles fearful to behold, but 
delightful to human nature in its polliwog state. 

“Vat wash te matter, Pen?” asked Jacob, hurrying for¬ 
ward. 

“Oh! nothing at all,” panted Ben, “except that Van 
Mounen was afraid of starting an English riot in this 
orderly town. He stopped my cheering for old Van der 

_ ?? 

“Ya! ya—it ish no goot to sheer—to make te noise for 
dat—You vill shee old Van der Does’ likeness mit to 
Stadhuis.” 

“See old Van der Does? I thought it was Van der 
Werf’s picture they had there-” 

“Ya,” responded Jacob, “Van der Werf—veil, vot of it! 
both ish just ash goot-” 

“Yes, Van der Does was a noble old Dutchman, but he 




166 


Hans Brinker 


was not Van der Werf. I know he defended the city like a 
brick, and-” 

4 4 Now vot for you shay dat, Penchamin? He no defend 
te citty mit breek, he fight like goot soltyer mit his guns. 
You like make te fun mit effrysinks Tutch.” 

44 No! no! no! I said he defended the city like a brick. 
That is very high praise, I would have you understand. 
We English call even the Duke of Wellington a brick.’’ 

Jacob looked puzzled; but his indignation was already on 
the ebb. 

4 4 Yell, it ish no matter. I no tink, before, soltyer mean 
breek, but it ish no matter.” 

Ben laughed good-naturedly, and seeing that his cousin 
was tired of talking in English, he turned to his friend of 
the two languages: 

4 4 Van Mounen! they say the very carrier-pigeons that 
brought news of relief to the besieged city are somewhere 
here in Leyden. I really should like to see them. Just think 
of it! At the very height of the trouble if the wind didn’t 
turn, and blow in the waters, and drown hundreds of the 
Spaniards, and enable the Dutch boats to sail in right over 
the land with men and provisions to the very gates of the 
city. The pigeons, you know, did great service, in bearing 
letters to and fro. I have read somewhere that they were 
reverently cared for from that day, and, when they died, 
they were stuffed and placed for safe keeping in the Town 
Hall. We must be sure to have a look at them.” 

Van Mounen laughed. 4 4 On that principle, Ben, I sup¬ 
pose when you to to Rome you’ll expect to see the identical 
goose that saved the Capitol. But it will be easy enough to 
see the pigeons. They are in the same building with Van 
der Werf’s portrait. Which was the greatest defence, Ben, 
the siege of Leyden or the siege of Haarlem?” 

44 Well,” replied Ben, thoughtfully, 44 Van der Werf is 
one of my heroes; we all have our historical pets, you know, 



The Beleaguered Cities 


167 


but I really think the siege of Haarlem brought out a 
braver, more heroic resistance even, than the Leyden one; 
besides they set the Leyden sufferers an example of courage 
and fortitude, for their turn came first.” 

“I don’t know much about the Haarlem siege,” said 
Lambert, 44 except that it was in 1573. Who beat?” 

44 The Spaniards,” said Ben. 44 The Dutch had stood out 
for months. Not a man would yield nor a woman either 
for that matter. They shouldered arms and fought gal¬ 
lantly beside their husbands and fathers. Three hundred 
of them did duty under Kanau Hesselaer, a great woman, 
and brave as Joan of Arc. All this time the city was sur¬ 
rounded by the Spaniards under Frederic of Toledo, son 
of that beauty, the Duke of Alva. Cut off from all possible 
help from without, there seemed to be no hope for the 
inhabitants, but they shouted defiance over the city walls. 
They even threw bread into the enemy’s camps to show that 
they were not afraid of starvation. Up to the last they held 
out bravely, waiting for the help that never could come— 
growing bolder and bolder until their provisions were 
exhausted. Then it was terrible. In time hundreds of 
famished creatures fell dead in the streets, and the living 
had scarcely strength to bury them. At last, they made the 
desperate resolution, that rather than perish by lingering 
torture, the strongest would form in a square, placing the 
weakest in the centre, and rush in a body to their death, 
with the faint chance of being able to fight their way 
through the enemy. The Spaniards received a hint of this, 
and believing there was nothing the Dutch would not dare 
to do, they concluded to offer terms.” 

44 High time, I should think.” 

4 4 Yes, with falsehood and treachery they soon obtained 
an entrance into the city, promising protection and forgive¬ 
ness to all except those whom the citizens themselves would 
acknowledge as deserving of death.” 



168 


Hans Brinker 


“You don’t say so!” said Lambert, quite interested; 
“that ended the business, I suppose.” 

“Not a bit of it,” returned Ben, “for the Duke of Alva 
had already given his son orders to show mercy to none.” 

“Ah! there was where the great Haarlem massacre came 
in. I remember now. You can’t wonder that the Hol¬ 
landers dislike Spain when you read of the way they were 
butchered by Alva and his hosts, though I admit that our 
side sometimes retaliated terribly. But as I have told you 
before, I have a very indistinct idea of historical matters. 
Everything is utter confusion—from the Flood to the battle 
of Waterloo. One thing is plain, however, the Duke of 
Alva was about the worst specimen of a man that ever 
lived.” 

“That gives only a faint idea of him,” said Ben, “but I 
hate to think of such a wretch. What if he had brains, and 
military skill, and all that sort of thing! Give me such men 
as Van der Werf, and—what now?” 

“Why,” said Van Mounen, who was looking up and down 
the street, in a bewildered way. “We’ve walked right past 
the Museum, and I don’t see the boys. Let us go back.” 




The boys met at the Museum, and were soon engaged in 
examining its extensive collection of curiosities, receiving 
a new insight into Egyptian life ancient and modern. Ben 
and Lambert had often visited the British Museum, but 
that did not prevent them from being surprised at the rich¬ 
ness of the Leyden collection. There were household uten¬ 
sils, wearing apparel, weapons, musical instruments, sarco¬ 
phagi, and mummies of men, women, and cats, ibexes and 
other creatures. They saw a massive gold armlet that had 
been worn by an Egyptian King at a time when some of 
these same mummies, perhaps, were nimbly treading the 
streets of Thebes; and jewels and trinkets such as 
Pharaoh’s daughter wore, and the children of Israel bor¬ 
rowed when they departed out of Egypt. 

There were other interesting relics, from Rome and 
Greece, and some curious Roman pottery which had been 
discovered in digging near the Hague—relics of the days 
when the countrymen of Julius Caesar had settled there. 
Where have they not settled? I for one would hardly be 

169 






















170 


Hans Brinker 


astonished if relics of the ancient Romans should some day 
be found deep under the grass growing round the Bunker 
Hill Monument. 

When the boys left this Museum, they went to another 
and saw a wonderful collection of fossil animals, skeletons, 
birds, minerals, precious stones and other natural speci¬ 
mens, but as they were not learned men, they could only 
walk about and stare, enjoy the little knowledge of natural 
history they possessed, and wish with all their hearts they 
had acquired more. Even the skeleton of the mouse 
puzzled Jacob. What wonder ? He w T as not used to seeing 
the cat-fearing little creatures running about in their bones 
—and how could he ever have imagined their necks to be so 
queer ? 

Besides the Museum of Natural History, there was Saint 
Peter’s Church to be visited, containing Professor Luzac’s 
Memorial, and Boerhaave’s Monument of white and black 
marble, with its urn and carved symbols of the four ages of 
life, and its medallion of Boerhaave, adorned with his 
favorite motto “Simplex sigillum veri.” They also 
obtained admittance to a tea-garden, which in summer was 
a favorite resort of the citizens, and passing naked oaks 
and fruit-trees, ascended a high mound which stood in the 
centre. This was the site of a round tower now in ruins, 
said by some to have been built by Hengist the Anglo-Saxon 
king, and by others to have been the castle of one of the 
ancient counts of Holland. 

As the boys walked about on the top of its stone wall, 
they could get but a poor view of the surrounding city. The 
tower stood higher when, more than two centuries ago, the 
inhabitants of beleaguered Leyden shouted to the watcher 
on its top their wild, despairing cries—“Is there any help? 
Are the waters rising? What do you see?” 

And for months he could only answer—“No help. I see 
around us nothing but the enemy.” 



Leyden 


171 


Ben pushed these thoughts away; and resolutely looking 
down into the bare tea-garden, filled it in imagination with 
gay summer groups. He tried to forget old battle-clouds, 
and picture only curling wreaths of tobacco-smoke, rising 
from among men, women and children enjoying their tea 
and coffee in the open air. But a tragedy came in spite 
of him. 

Poot was bending over the edge of the high wall. It 
would be just like him to grow dizzy and tumble off. Ben 
turned impatiently away. If the fellow with his weak head 
knew no better than to be venturesome, why, let him tumble. 
Horror! what meant that heavy, crashing sound ? 

Ben could not stir. He could only gasp: 

“ Jacob!” 

“Jacob!” cried another startled voice and another. 
Eeady to faint, Ben managed to turn his head. He saw a 
crowd of boys on the edge of the wall opposite—but Jacob 
was not there! 

“Good Heaven!” he cried, springing forward, “where is 
my cousin?” 

The crowd parted. It was only four boys, after all. 
There sat Jacob in their midst, holding his sides and laugh¬ 
ing heartily. 

“Did I frighten you all?” he said in his native Dutch. 
“Well, I will tell you how it was. There was a big stone 
lying on the wall and I put my—my foot out just to push it 
a little, you see—and the first thing I knew, down went the 
stone all the way to the bottom, and left me sitting here on 
top with both my feet in the air. If I had not thrown 
myself back at that moment, I certainly should have rolled 
over after the stone. Well, it is no matter. Help me up, 
boys.” 

“You are hurt, Jacob!” said Ben, seeing a shade of 
seriousness pass over his cousin’s face as they lifted him to 
his feet. 



172 


Hans Brinker 


Jacob tried to laugh again. “Oh, no—I feels little hurt 
ven I stant up, but it ish no matter.” 

The monument to Van der Werf in the Hooglandsche 
Kerk was not accessible that day; but the boys spent a few 
pleasant moments in the Stadhuis or Town Hall, a long 
irregular structure somewhat in the Gothic style, uncouth 
in architecture, but picturesque from age. Its little steeple, 
tuneful with bells, seemed to have been borrowed from some 
other building and hastily clapped on as a finishing touch. 

Ascending the grand staircase the boys soon found them¬ 
selves in rather a gloomy apartment, containing the master¬ 
piece of Lucas van Leyden, or Hugens, a Dutch artist, born 
three hundred and seventy years ago, who painted well 
when he was ten years of age, and became distinguished in 
art when only fifteen. This picture, called the “Last Judg¬ 
ment,” considering the remote age in which it was painted, 
is truly a remarkable production. The boys, however, were 
less interested in tracing out the merits of the work, than 
they were in the fact of its being a triptych—that is, 
painted on three divisions, the two outer ones swung on 
hinges so as to close, when required, over the main portion. 

The historical pictures by Harel de Moor and other 
famous Dutch artists interested them for a while, and Ben 
had to be almost pulled away from the dingy old portrait 
of Van der Werf. 

The Town Hall, as well as the Egyptian Museum, is on 
the Breede Straat, the longest and finest street in Leyden. 
It has no canal running through it, and the houses, painted 
in every variety of color, have a picturesque effect as they 
stand with their gable ends to the street; some are very tall, 
with half of their height in their step-like roofs; others 
crouch before the public edifices and churches. Being clean, 
spacious, well-shaded and adorned with many elegant man¬ 
sions, it compares favorably with the finer portions of 



Leyden 


173 


Amsterdam. It is kept scrupulously neat; many of the 
gutters are covered with boards that open like trap-doors; 
and it is supplied with pumps surmounted with shining 
brass ornaments kept scoured and bright at the public cost. 
The city is intersected by numerous water-roads formed by 
the river Rhine, there grown sluggish, fatigued by its long 
travel; but more than one hundred and fifty stone bridges 
reunite the dissevered streets. The same world-renowned 
river, degraded from the beautiful, free-flowing Rhine, 
serves as a moat around the rampart that surrounds Ley¬ 
den, and is crossed by draw-bridges at the imposing gate¬ 
ways that give access to the city. Fine broad promenades, 
shaded by noble trees, border the canals, and add to the 
retired appearance of the houses behind, heightening the 
effect of scholastic seclusion that seems to pervade the 
place. 

Ben, as he scanned the buildings on the Rapenburg Canal, 
was somewhat disappointed in the appearance of the great 
University of Leyden. But when he recalled its history— 
how, attended with all the pomp of a grand civic display, it 
had been founded by the Prince of Orange as a tribute to 
the citizens for the bravery displayed during the siege; 
when he remembered the great men in religion, learning 
and science who had once studied there, and thought of the 
hundreds of students now sharing the benefits of its classes 
and its valuable scientific museums—he was quite willing to 
forego architectural beauty, though he could not help feel¬ 
ing that no amount of it could have been misplaced on such 
an institution. 

Peter and Jacob regarded the building with even a 
deeper, more practical interest, for they were to enter it as 
students, in the course of a few months. 

4 4 Poor Don Quixote would have run a hopeless tilt in 
this part of the world,” said Ben, after Lambert had been 
pointing out some of the oddities and beauties of the 



174 


Hans Brinker 


suburbs—-“it is all windmills. You remember bis terrific 
contest with one, I suppose.” 

“No,” said Lambert, bluntly. 

“Well, I don’t either, that is, not definitely. But there 
was something of that kind in his adventures, and if there 
wasn’t, there should have been—Look at them, how fran¬ 
tically they whirl their great arms—just the thing to excite 
the crazy knight to mortal combat. It bewilders one to look 
at them; help me to count all those we can see, Van Mounen. 
I want a big item for my note-book”—and after a careful 
reckoning, superintended by all the party, Master Ben 
wrote in pencil, “Saw, Dec.,—184— ninety-eight windmills 
within full view of Leyden.” 

He would have been glad to visit the old brick mill in 
which the painter Rembrandt was born; but he abandoned 
the project upon learning that it would take them out of 
their way. Few boys as hungry as Ben was by this time, 
would hesitate long between Rembrandt’s home a mile off, 
and tiffin close by. Ben chose the latter. 

After tiffin, they rested a while, and then—took another, 
which, for form’s sake, they called dinner. After dinner the 
boys sat warming themselves, at the inn; all but Peter, who 
occupied the time in another fruitless search for Dr. 
Boekman. 

This over, the party once more prepared for skating. 
They were thirteen miles from the Hague and not as fresh 
as when they had left Broek early on the previous day; but 
they were in good spirits and the ice was excellent. 




THE PALACE AND THE WOOD 

As the boys skated onward, they saw a number of fine 
country seats, all decorated and surrounded according to 
the Dutchest of Dutch taste, but impressive to look upon, 
with their great, formal houses, elaborate gardens, square 
hedges, and wide ditches—some crossed by a bridge, having 
a gate in the middle to be carefully locked at night. These 
ditches, everywhere traversing the landscape, had long ago 
lost their summer film, and now shone under the sunlight, 
like trailing ribbons of glass. 

The boys traveled bravely, all the while performing the 
surprising feat of producing gingerbread from their pock¬ 
ets and causing it to vanish instantly. 

Twelve miles were passed. A few more long strokes 
would take them to the Hague, when Van Mounen proposed 
that they should vary their course, by walking into the city 
through the Bosch. 

“Agreed!” cried one and all—and their skates were off 
in a twinkling. 

The Bosch is a grand park or wood, nearly two miles 
long, containing the celebrated House in the Wood —Huis 
in’t Bosch —sometimes used as a royal residence. 

175 












176 


Hans Brinker 


This building, though plain outside for a palace, is ele¬ 
gantly furnished within, and finely frescoed—that is, the 
walls and ceiling are covered with groups and designs 
painted directly upon them while the plaster was fresh. 
Some of the rooms are tapestried with Chinese silk, beau¬ 
tifully embroidered. One contains a number of family por¬ 
traits, among them a group of royal children who in time 
were orphaned by a certain axe which figures very fre¬ 
quently in European history. These children were painted 
many times by the Dutch artist Van Dyck, who was court- 
painter to their father. Charles the First of England. 
Beautiful children they were—what a deal of trouble the 
English nation would have been spared, had they been as 
perfect in heart and soul, as they were in form! 

The park surrounding the palace is charming, especially 
in summer, for flowers and birds make it bright as fairy¬ 
land. Long rows of magnificent oaks rear their proud 
heads, conscious that no profaning hand will ever bring 
them low. In fact the Wood has for ages been held as an 
almost sacred spot. Children are never allowed to meddle 
with its smallest twig; the axe of the woodman has never 
resounded there. Even war and riot have passed it 
reverently, pausing for a moment in their devastating way. 
Philip of Spain, while he ordered Dutchmen to be mowed 
down by hundreds, issued a mandate that not a bough of the 
beautiful Wood should be touched—and once when in a 
time of great necessity the State was about to sacrifice it to 
assist in filling a nearly exhausted treasury, the people 
rushed to the rescue, and nobly contributed the required 
amount rather than that the Bosch should fall. 

What wonder then that the oaks have a grand, fearless 
air? Birds from all Holland have told them how, else¬ 
where, trees are cropped and bobbed into shape—but they 
are untouched. Year after year, they expand in unclipped 
luxuriance and beauty; their wide-spreading foliage, alive 



The Palace and the Wood 


177 


with song, casts a cool shade over lawn and pathway, or 
bows to its image in the sunny ponds. 

Meanwhile, as if to reward the citizens for allowing her 
to have her way for once, Nature departs from the invari¬ 
able level, wearing gracefully the ornaments that have been 
reverently bestowed upon her—So the lawn slopes in a 
velvety green; the paths wind in and out; flower-beds glow 
and send forth perfume; and ponds and sky look at each 
other in mutual admiration. 

Even on that winter day the Bosch was beautiful. Its 
trees were bare, but beneath them still lay the ponds, every 
ripple smoothed into glass. The blue sky was bright over¬ 
head, and as it looked down through the thicket of boughs, 
it saw another blue sky, not nearly so bright, looking up 
from the dim thicket under the ice. 

Never had the sunset appeared more beautiful to Peter 
than when he saw it exchanging farewell glances with the 
windows and shining roofs of the city before him. Never 
had the Hague itself seemed more inviting. He was no 
longer Peter van Holp, going to visit a great city, nor a fine 
young gentleman bent on sightseeing; he was a knight, an 
adventurer, travel-soiled and weary, a Hop-o’-my-Thumb 
grown large, a Fortunatus approaching the enchanted 
castle where luxury and ease awaited him—for his own 
sister’s house was not half a mile away. 

“At last, boys,” he cried, in high glee, “we may hope for 
a royal resting-place—good beds, warm rooms and some¬ 
thing fit to eat. I never realized before what a luxury such 
things are. Our lodgings at the Red Lion have made us 
appreciate our own homes.” 




THE MERCHANT PRINCE, AND THE SISTER-PRINCESS 

Well might Peter feel that his sister’s house was like an 
enchanted castle. Large and elegant as it was, a spell of 
quiet hung over it. The very lion crouching at its gate 
seemed to have been turned into stone through magic. 
Within, it was guarded by genii, in the shape of red-faced 
servants, who sprang silently forth at the summons of bell 
or knocker. There was a cat, also, who appeared as know¬ 
ing as any Puss-in-Boots; and a brass gnome in the hall 
whose business it was to stand with outstretched arms ready 
to receive sticks and umbrellas. Safe within the walls 
bloomed a Garden of Delight, where the flowers firmly 
believed it was summer, and a sparkling fountain was 
laughing merrily to itself because Jack Frost could not find 
it. There was a Sleeping Beauty, too, just at the time of 
the boys’ arrival; but when Peter, like a true prince, flew 
lightly up the stairs, and kissed her eyelids, the enchant¬ 
ment was broken. The princess became his own good sister, 
and the fairy castle just one of the finest, most comfortable 
houses of the Hague. 


178 















The Merchant Prince , and the Sister~Princess 


179 


As may well be believed, the boys received the heartiest 
of welcomes. After they had conversed a while with their 
lively hostess, one of the genii summoned them to a grand 
repast in a red-curtained room, where floor and ceiling 
shone like polished ivory, and the mirrors suddenly blos¬ 
somed into rosy-cheeked boys as far as the eye could reach. 

They had caviare now, and salmagundi, and sausage and 
cheese, besides salad and fruit and biscuit and cake. How 
the boys could partake of such a medley was a mystery to 
Ben; for the salad was sour, and the cake was sweet; the 
fruit was dainty, and the salmagundi heavy with onions 
and fish. But, while he was wondering, he made a hearty 
meal, and was soon absorbed in deciding which he really 
preferred, the coffee or the anisette cordial. It was delight¬ 
ful, too—this taking one’s food from dishes of frosted 
silver and liqueur glasses from which Titania herself might 
have sipped. The young gentleman afterward wrote to 
his mother that pretty and choice as things were at home, 
he had never known what cut-glass, china and silver serv¬ 
ices were until he visited the Hague. 

Of course Peter’s sister soon heard of all the boys’ 
adventures. How they had skated over forty miles and 
seen rare sights on the way; how they had lost their purse 
and found it again. How one of the party had fallen and 
given them an excuse for a grand sail in an ice-boat; how 
above all, they had caught a robber, and so for a second 
time saved their slippery purse. 

“And now, Peter,” said the lady, when the story was 
finished, “you must write at once to tell the good people of 
Broek that your adventures have reached their height, 
that you and your fellow-travelers have all been taken 
prisoners.” 

The boys looked startled. 

“Indeed, I shall do no such thing,” laughed Peter; “we 
must leave to-morrow at noon.” 



180 


Hans Brinker 


But the sister had already decided differently, and a 
Holland lady is not to be easily turned from her purpose. 
In short, she held forth such strong temptations, and was 
so bright and cheerful, and said so many coaxing and 
unanswerable things, both in English and Dutch, that the 
boys were all delighted when it was settled that they should 
remain at the Hague for at least two days. 

Next the grand skating-race was talked over; Mevrouw 
van Gend gladly promised to be present on the occasion— 
“I shall witness your triumph, Peter,” she said, “for you 
are the fastest skater I ever knew.” 

Peter blushed and gave a slight cough, as Carl answered 
for him. 

“Ah, mevrouw, he is swift, but all the Broek boys are fine 
skaters—even the rag-pickers”—and he thought bitterly of 
poor Hans. 

The lady laughed. “That will make the race all the more 
exciting,” she said—“but I shall wish each of you to be 
the winner.” 

At this moment her husband Mynheer van Gend came in, 
and the enchantment falling upon the boys was complete. 

The invisible fairies of the household at once clustered 
about them whispering that Jasper van Gend had a heart 
as young and fresh as their own, and if he loved anything 
in this world more than industry, it was sunshine and frolic. 
They hinted also something about his having a heart full of 
love and a head full of wisdom, and finally gave the boys 
to understand that when Mynheer said a thing he meant it. 

Therefore his frank “Well now, this is pleasant,” as he 
shook hands with them all, made the boys feel quite at home 
and as happy as squirrels. 

There were fine paintings in the drawing-room and 
exquisite statuary, and portfolios filled with rare Dutch 
engravings; besides many beautiful and curious things 



The Merchant Prince , and the Sister-Princess 


181 


from China and Japan. The boys felt that it would require 
a month to examine all the treasures of the apartment. 

Ben noticed with pleasure English books lying upon the 
table. He saw also over the carved, upright piano, life- 
sized portraits of William of Orange and his English queen, 
a sight that, for a time, brought England and Holland side 
by side in his heart. William and Mary have left a halo 
round the English throne to this day, he the truest patriot 
that ever served an adopted country, she the noblest wife 
that ever sat upon a British throne, up to the time of Vic¬ 
toria and Albert the Good. As Ben looked at the pictures, 
he remembered accounts he had read of King William’s 
visit to the Hague in the winter of 1691. He who sang the 
Battle of Ivry had not yet told the glowing story of that 
day, but Ben knew enough of it, to fancy that he could 
almost hear the shouts of the delighted populace as he 
looked from the portraits to the street, which at this 
moment was aglow with a bonfire, kindled in a neighboring 
square. 

That royal visit was one never to be forgotten. For two 
years William of Orange had been monarch of a foreign 
land, his head working faithfully for England, but his 
whole heart yearning for Holland. Now when he sought its 
shores once more, the entire nation bade him welcome. 
Multitudes flocked to the Hague to meet him—“many thou¬ 
sands came sliding or skating along the frozen canals from 
Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Leyden, Haarlem, Delft.” 1 All 
day long the festivities of the capital were kept up, the 
streets were gorgeous with banners, evergreen arches, tro¬ 
phies, and mottoes of welcome and emblems of industry. 
William saw the deeds of his ancestors and scenes of his 
own past life depicted on banners and tapestries along the 
streets. At night, superb fireworks were displayed upon 


(1) Macaulay’s History of England. 




182 


Hans Brinker 


the ice. Its glassy surface was like a mirror. Sparkling 
fountains of light sprang up from below to meet the glitter¬ 
ing cascades leaping upon it. Then a feathery fire of 
crimson and green shook millions of rubies and emeralds 
into the ruddy depths of the ice—and all this time the 
people were shouting—God bless William of Orange—long 
live the King! They were half mad with joy and enthusi¬ 
asm. William their own prince, their stadt-holder, had 
become the ruler of three kingdoms; he had been victorious 
in council and in war, and now in his hour of greatest 
triumph, had come as a simple guest to visit them. The 
king heard their shouts with a beating heart. It is a great 
thing to be beloved by one’s country. His English cour¬ 
tiers complimented him upon his reception. “Yes,” said 
he, “but the shouting is nothing to what it would have been 
if Mary had been with me!” 

While Ben was looking at the portraits, Mynheer van 
Gend was giving the boys an account of a recent visit to 
Antwerp. As it was the birthplace of Quentin Matsys the 
blacksmith who for love of an artist’s daughter, studied 
until he became a great painter, the boys asked their host 
if he had seen any of Matsys’ works. 

“Yes, indeed,” he replied, “and excellent they are. His 
famous triptych in a chapel of the Antwerp Cathedral, with 
the Descent from the Cross on the centre panel, is especially 
fine; but I confess I was more interested in his well.” 

“What well, mynheer?” asked Ludwig. 

“One in the heart of the city, near this same cathedral, 
whose lofty steeple is of such delicate workmanship, that 
the French Emperor said it reminded him of Mechlin lace. 
The well is covered with a Gothic canopy surmounted by 
the figure of a knight in full armor. It is all of metal, and 
proves that Matsys was an artist of the forge as well as at 
the easel; indeed his great fame is mainly derived from his 
miraculous skill as an artificer in iron.” 



The Merchant Prince , and the Sister-Princess 


183 


Next, mynheer showed the boys some exquisite Berlin 
castings, which he had purchased in Antwerp. They were 
iron jewelry, and very delicate—beautiful medallions 
designed from rare paintings, bordered with fine tracery 
and open work—worthy he said of being worn by the fair¬ 
est lady of the land. Consequently the necklace was handed 
with a bow and a smile to the blushing Mevrouw van Gend. 

Something in the lady’s aspect, as she bent her bright 
young face over the gift, caused mynheer to add earnestly: 

“I can read your thoughts, sweetheart.” 

She looked up in playful defiance. 

“Ah! now I am sure of them. You were thinking of 
those noble-hearted women, but for whom Prussia might 
have fallen. I know it by that proud light in your eye.” 

“The proud light in my eye plays me false, then,” she 
answered. “I had no such grand matter in my mind. To 
confess the simple truth, I was only thinking how lovely 
this necklace would be with my blue brocade.” 

“So! so!” exclaimed the rather crestfallen spouse 

“But I can think of the other, Jasper, and it will add a 
deeper value to your gift. You remember the incident, do 
you not, Peter? How when the French were invading 
Prussia and for lack of means, the country was unable to 
defend itself against the enemy, the women turned the scale 
by pouring their plate and jewels into the public treasury 

_ >> 

“ Aia!” thought mynheer, as he met his vrouw’s kindling 
glance. “The proud light is there, now, in earnest.” 

Peter remarked maliciously that the women had still 
proved true to their vanity on that occasion, for jewelry 
they would have. If gold or silver were wanted by the 
kingdom, they would relinquish it and use iron, but they 
could not do without their ornaments. 

“What of that?” said the vrouw, kindling again. “It 
is no sin to love beautiful things, if you adapt your mate- 



184 


Hans Brinker 


rial to circumstances. All I have to say is, the women saved 
their country and, indirectly, introduced a very important 
branch of manufacture. Is not that so, Jasper?” 

“Of course it is, sweetheart,” said mynheer, “but Peter 
needs no word of mine to convince him that all the world 
over, women have never been found wanting in their coun¬ 
try’s hour of trial, though (bowing to Mevrouw) his own 
countrywomen stand foremost in the records of female 
patriotism and devotion.” 

Then turning to Ben, the host talked with him in English 
of the fine old Belgian city. Among other things, he told 
the origin of its name. Ben had been taught that Antwerp 
was derived from aen’t werf (on the wharf), but Mynheer 
van Gend gave him a far more interesting derivation. 

It appears that about three thousand years ago, a great 
giant, named Antigonus, lived on the river Scheld, on the 
site of the present city of Antwerp. This giant claimed 
half the merchandise of all navigators who passed his castle. 
Of course some were inclined to oppose this simple regula¬ 
tion. In such cases, Antigonus, by way of teaching them to 
practice better manners next time, cut off and threw into 
the river the right hands of the merchants. Thus hand- 
werpen (or hand-throwing), changed to Antwerp, came to 
be the name of the place. The escutcheon or arms of the 
city has two hands upon it; what better proof than this 
could one have of the truth of the story, especially when one 
wishes to believe it! 

The giant was finally conquered and thrown into the 
Scheld by a hero called Brabo, who in turn gave a name to 
the district known as Brabant. Since then the Dutch mer¬ 
chants have traveled the river in peace; but I for one thank 
old Antigonus for giving the city so romantic an origin. 

When Mynheer van Gend had related in two languages 
this story of Antwerp, he was tempted to tell other legends 
—some in English, some in Dutch; and so the moments, 



The Merchant Prince , and the Sister-Princess 


185 


borne upon the swift shoulders of gnomes and giants, glided 
rapidly away toward bedtime. 

It was hard to break up so pleasant a party, but the Van 
Gend household moved with the regularity of clockwork. 
There was no lingering at the threshold when the cordial 
“Good-night!” was spoken. Even w T hile our boys were 
mounting the stairs, the invisible household fairies again 
clustered around them, whispering that system and regu¬ 
larity had been chief builders of the master’s prosperity. 

Beautiful chambers with three beds in them, were not to 
be found in this mansion. Some of the rooms contained 
two, but each visitor slept alone. Before morning, the motto 
of the party evidently was, “Every boy his own chrysalis 
—and Peter, at least, was not sorry to have it so. 

Tired as he was, Ben, after noting a curious bell-rope in 
the corner, began to examine his bedclothes. Each article 
filled him with astonishment—the exquisitely fine pillow- 
spread trimmed with costly lace and embroidered with a 
gorgeous crest and initial, the dekbed cover (a great silk 
bag, large as the bed, stuffed with swan’s-down) and the 
pink satin quilts, embroidered with garlands of flowers. 
He could scarcely sleep for thinking what a queer little bed 
it was, so comfortable and pretty, too, with all its queer¬ 
ness. In the morning he examined the top coverlet with 
care, for he wished to send home a description of it in his 
next letter. It was a Japanese spread, marvelous in tex¬ 
ture as well as in its variety of brilliant coloring, and worth, 
as Ben afterward learned, not less than three hundred 
dollars. 

The floor was of polished wooden mosaic, nearly covered 
with a rich carpet bordered with thick, black fringe. 
Another room displayed a margin of satin-wood around 
the carpet. Hung with tapestry, its walls of crimson silk 
were topped with a gilded cornice which shot down gleams 
of light far into the polished floor. 



186 


Hans Brinker 


Over the doorway of the room in which Jacob and Ben 
slept was a bronze stork who, with outstretched neck, held 
a lamp to light the guests into the apartment. Between the 
two narrow beds, of carved white-wood and ebony, stood the 
household treasure of the Van Gends, a massive oaken chair 
upon which the Prince of Orange had once sat, during a 
council meeting. Opposite, stood a quaintly carved clothes- 
press, waxed and polished to the utmost, and filled with 
precious stores of linen; beside it a table holding a large 
Bible, whose great golden clasps looked poor compared 
with its solid, ribbed binding made to outlast six gen¬ 
erations. 

There was a ship model on the mantel-shelf, and over it 
hung an old portrait of Peter the Great, who, you know, 
once gave the dockyard cats of Holland a fine chance to look 
at a king, which is one of the special prerogatives of cats. 
Peter, though Czar of Russia, was not too proud to work as 
a common shipwright in the dockyards of Saardam and 
Amsterdam, that he might be able to introduce among his 
countrymen Dutch improvements in ship-building. It was 
this willingness to be thorough in even the smallest begin¬ 
nings that earned for him the title of Peter the Great. 

Peter the little (comparatively speaking) was up first, 
the next morning; knowing the punctual habits of his 
brother-in-law, he took good care that none of the boys 
should oversleep themselves. A hard task he found it to 
wake Jacob Poot; but after pulling that young gentleman 
out of bed, and, with Ben’s help, dragging him about the 
room for a while, he succeeded in arousing him. 

While Jacob was dressing, and moaning within him, 
because the felt slippers, provided him as a guest, were too 
tight for his swollen feet, Peter wrote to inform their 
friends at Broek of the safe arrival of his party at the 
Hague. He also begged his mother to send word to Hans 
Brinker that Dr. Boekman had not yet reached Leyden, but 



The Merchant Prince , and the Sister-Princess 


187 


that a letter containing Hans ’ message had been left at the 
hotel, where the doctor always lodged during his visits to 
the city. 44 Tell him, also,” wrote Peter, 44 that I shall call 
there again, as I pass through Leyden. The poor boy 
seemed to feel sure that 4 the meester’ would hasten to save 
his father, but we, who know the gruff old gentleman bet¬ 
ter, may be confident he will do no such thing. It would be 
a kindness to send a visiting physician from Amsterdam to 
the cottage at once, if Jufvrouw 1 Brinker will consent to 
receive any but the great king of the meesters, as Dr. Boek- 
man certainly is. 

44 You know, mother,” added Peter, 44 that I have always 
considered sister Van Gend’s house as rather quiet and 
lonely; but I assure you, it is not so now. Sister says our 
presence has warmed it for the whole winter. Brother van 
Gend is very kind to us all. He says we make him wish that 
he had a houseful of boys of his own. He has promised to 
let us ride on his noble black horses. They are gentle as 
kittens, he says, if one have but a firm touch at the rein. 
Ben, according to Jacob’s account, is a glorious rider, and 
your son Peter is not a very bad hand at the business; so 
we two are to go out together this morning mounted like 
knights of old. After we return, brother van Gend says he 
will lend Jacob his English pony and obtain three extra 
horses; and all of the party are to trot about the city, in a 
grand cavalcade, led on by him. He will ride the black 
horse which father sent him from Friesland. My sister’s 
pretty roan with the long white tail is lame and she will 
ride none other; else she would accompany us. I could 
scarce close my eyes last night after sister told me of the 
plan. Only the thought of poor Hans Brinker and his sick 
father checked me—but for that I could have sung for joy. 

(1) In Holland, women of the lower grades of society do not take the title of 
Mrs. (or Mevrouw) when they marry, as with us. They assume their husband s 
name, but are still called Miss (Jufvrouw, pronounced Yuffrow). 




188 


Hans Brinker 


Ludwig has given us a name already—the Broek Cavalry. 
We flatter ourselves that we shall make an imposing 
appearance, especially in single file. . . .” 

The Broek Cavalry was not disappointed. Mynheer 
van Gend readily procured good horses; and all the boys 
could ride, though none were as perfect horsemen (or horse¬ 
boys) as Peter and Ben. They saw the Hague to their 
hearts’ content; and the Hague saw them—expressing its 
approbation, loudly, through the mouths of small boys and 
cart-dogs; silently, through bright eyes that, not looking 
very deeply into things, shone as they looked at the hand¬ 
some Carl, and twinkled with fun as a certain portly youth 
with shaking cheeks rode past “bumpetty, bumpetty, 
bump!” 

On their return, the boys pronounced the great porcelain 
stove in the family sitting-room a decidedly useful piece of 
furniture, for they could gather round it and get warm 
without burning their noses or bringing on chilblains. It 
was so very large that, though hot nowhere, it seemed to 
send out warmth by the houseful—Its pure white sides and 
polished brass rings made it a pretty object to look upon, 
notwithstanding the fact that our ungrateful Ben, while 
growing thoroughly warm and comfortable beside it, con¬ 
cocted a satirical sentence for his next letter, to the effect 
that a stove in Holland must of course resemble a great 
tower of snow or it wouldn’t be in keeping with the oddity 
of the country. 

To describe all the boys saw and did on that day and the 
next, would render this little book a formidable volume 
indeed. They visited the brass cannon foundry, saw the 
liquid fire poured into moulds and watched the smiths who, 
half naked, stood in the shadow, like demons playing with 
flame. They admired the grand public buildings and mas¬ 
sive private houses, the elegant streets, and noble Bosch— 
pride of all beauty-loving Hollanders. The palace with its 



The Merchant Prince, and the Sister-Princess 


189 


brilliant mosaic floors, its frescoed ceilings and gorgeous 
ornament, filled Ben with delight; he was surprised that 
some of the churches were so very plain—elaborate some¬ 
times in external architecture, but bare and bleak within 
with their blank, whitewashed walls. 

If there were no printed record, the churches of Holland 
would almost tell her story. I will not enter into the subject 
here, except to say that Ben—who had read of her strug¬ 
gles and wrongs, and of the terrible retribution she from 
time to time dealt forth—could scarcely tread a Holland 
town without mentally leaping horror-stricken over the 
bloody stepping-stones of its history. He could not forget 
Philip of Spain nor the Duke of Alva even while rejoicing 
in the prosperity that followed the Liberation. He looked 
in the meekest of Dutch eyes, for something of the fire that 
once lit the haggard faces of those desperate, lawless men, 
who wearing with pride the title of “beggars” which their 
oppressors had mockingly cast upon them, became the 
terror of land and sea. In Haarlem, he had wondered that 
the air did not still resound with the cries of Alva’s three 
thousand victims. In Leyden, his heart had swelled in 
sympathy as he thought of the long procession of scarred 
and famished creatures who after the siege, with Adrian 
van der Werf at their head, tottered to the great church to 
sing a glorious anthem because Leyden was free! He 
remembered that this was even before they had tasted the 
bread brought by the Dutch ships. They would praise God 
first, then eat. Thousands of trembling voices were raised 
in glad thanksgiving. For a moment, it swelled higher and 
higher—then suddenly changed to sobbing—not one of all 
the multitude could sing another note. But who shall say 
that the anthem, even to its very end, was not heard in 
Heaven! 

Here, in the Hague, other thoughts came to Ben—of how 
Holland in later years unwillingly put her head under the 



190 


Hans Brinker 


French yoke, and how, galled and lashed past endurance, 
she had resolutely jerked it out again. He liked her for 
that. What nation of any spirit, thought he, could be 
expected to stand such work, paying all her wealth into a 
foreign treasury and yielding up the flower of her youth 
under foreign conscription. It was not so very long ago, 
either, since English guns had been heard booming close by 
in the German Ocean. Well—all the fighting was over at 
last. Holland was a snug little monarchy now in her own 
right, and Ben, for one, was glad of it. Arrived at this 
charitable conclusion, he was prepared to enjoy to the 
utmost all the wonders of her capital; he quite delighted 
Mynheer van Gend with his hearty and intelligent interest 
—so, in fact, did all the boys, for a merrier, more observant 
party never went sightseeing. 




THROUGH THE HAGUE 

The picture gallery, in the Maurits Huis , 1 one of the 
finest in the world, seemed only to have flashed by the boys 
during a two hours’ visit, so much was there to admire and 
examine. As for the Royal Cabinet of curiosities, in the 
same building, they felt that they had but glanced at it 
though they were there nearly half a day. It seemed to 
them that Japan had poured all her treasures within its 
walls. For a long period, Holland, always foremost in com¬ 
merce, was the only nation allowed to have any intercourse 

(1) A building erected by Prince Maurice of Nassau. 

191 
























192 


Hans Brinker 


with Japan. One can well forego a journey to that country 
if he can but visit the Museum at the Hague. 

Room after room is tilled with collections from the 
Hermit Empire—costumes peculiar to various ranks and 
pursuits, articles of ornament, household utensils, weapons, 
armor and surgical instruments. There is also an ingenious 
Japanese model of the Island of Desina, the Hutch factory 
in Japan. It appears almost as the island itself would if 
seen through a reversed opera-glass, and makes one feel 
like a Gulliver coming unexpectedly upon a Japanese 
Lilliput. There you see hundreds of people in native cos¬ 
tumes, standing, kneeling, stooping, reaching—all at work, 
or pretending to be—and their dwellings, even their very 
furniture, spread out before you, plain as day. In another 
room a huge tortoise shell baby-house fitted up in Dutch 
style and inhabited by dignified Dutch dolls, stands ready 
to tell you at a glance how people live in Holland. 

Gretel, Hilda, Katrinka, even the proud Rychie Korbes, 
would have been delighted with this; but Peter and his gal¬ 
lant band passed it by without even a glance. The war 
implements had the honor of detaining them for an hour; 
such clubs, such murderous krits, or daggers, such firearms, 
and, above all, such wonderful Japanese swords, quite 
capable of performing the accredited Japanese feat, of 
cutting a man in two at a single stroke! 

There were Chinese and other oriental curiosities in the 
collection. Native historical relics, too, upon which our 
young Dutchmen gazed very soberly, though they were 
secretly proud to show them to Ben. 

There was a model of the cabin at Saardam in which 
Peter the Great lived during his short career as a ship¬ 
builder. Also, wallets and bowls—once carried by the 
“Beggar” Confederates who, uniting under the Prince of 
Orange, had freed Holland from the tyranny of Spain; the 
sword of Admiral Van Speyk, who about ten years before 



Through the Hague 


193 


had perished in voluntarily blowing up his own ship; and 
Van Tromp’s armor with the marks of bullets upon it. 
Jacob looked around, hoping to see the broom which the 
plucky admiral fastened to his mast-head—but it was not 
there. The waistcoat which William Third 1 of England 
wore during the last days of his life, possessed great inter¬ 
est for Ben; and one and all gazed with a mixture of rever¬ 
ence and horror-worship at the identical clothing worn by 
William the Silent 1 when he was murdered at Delft by 
Balthazar Geraerts. A tawny leather doublet and plain 
surcoat of gray cloth, a soft felt hat, and a high neck-ruff 
from which hung one of the “Beggars’ ” medals—these 
were not in themselves very princely objects, though the 
doublet had a tragic interest from its dark stains, and bullet 
holes. Ben could readily believe, as he looked upon the gar¬ 
ments, that the Silent Prince, true to his greatness of 
character, had been exceedingly simple in his attire. His 
aristocratic prejudices were, however, decidedly shocked 
when Lambert told him of the way in which William’s bride 
first entered the Hague. 

“The beautiful Louisa de Coligny, whose father and 
former husband both had fallen at the Massacre of St. 
Bartholomew, was coming to be fourth wife to the Prince, 
and of course,” said Lambert, “we Hollanders were too 
gallant to allow the lady to enter the town on foot. No, sir, 
w r e sent (or rather my ancestors did) a clean, open post¬ 
wagon to meet her, with a plank across it for her to sit 
upon!” 

“Very gallant indeed!” exclaimed Ben w T ith almost a 
sneer in his polite laugh—“and she the daughter of an 
Admiral of Prance.” 

“Was she? Upon my word I had nearly forgotten that. 


(1) William, Prince of Orange, who became King of England, was a great 
grandson of William the Silent, Prince of Orange, who was murdered by Geraerts 
(or Gerard) July 10th, 1584. 




194 


Hans Brinker 


But, you see Holland had very plain ways in the good old 
time, in fact we are a very simple, frugal people to this 
day. The Van Gend establishment is a decided exception, 
you know.” 

“A very agreeable exception, I think,” said Ben. 

“ Certainly, certainly. But, between you and me, Myn¬ 
heer van Gend, though he has wrought his own fortunes, 
can afford to be magnificent, and yet be frugal.” 

“Exactly so,” said Ben profoundly; at the same time 
stroking his upper lip and chin, which latterly he believed 
had been showing delightful and unmistakable signs of 
coming dignities. 

While tramping on foot through the city, Ben often 
longed for a good English sidewalk. Here, as in the other 
towns, there was no curb, no raised pavement for foot trav¬ 
elers—but the streets were clean and even, and all vehicles 
were kept scrupulously within a certain tract. Strange to 
say, there were nearly as many sleds as wagons to be seen, 
though there was not a particle of snow. The sleds went 
scraping over the bricks or cobblestones; some provided 
with an apparatus in front for sprinkling water, to dimin¬ 
ish the friction, and some rendered less musical by means 
of a dripping oil rag, which the driver occasionally applied 
to the runners. 

Ben was surprised at the noiseless way in which Butch 
laborers do their work. Even around the warehouses and 
docks there was no bustle, no shouting from one to another. 
A certain twitch of the pipe, or turn of the head or, at most, 
a raising of the hand, seemed to be all the signal necessary. 
Entire loads of cheeses or herrings are pitched from cart or 
canal-boat into the warehouses without a word; but the 
passer-by must take his chance of being pelted, for a Dutch¬ 
man seldom looks before or behind him while engaged at 
work. 

Poor Jacob Poot, who seemed destined to bear all the 




JACOB POOT WAS KNOCKED NEARLY BREATHLESS 


195 












































196 


Hans Brinker 


mishaps of the journey, was knocked nearly breathless by a 
great cheese, which a fat Dutchman was throwing to a 
fellow-laborer; but he recovered himself, and passed on 
without evincing the least indignation. 

Ben professed great sympathy on the occasion, but Jacob 
insisted that it was “notting.” 

“Then why did you screw your face so when it hit you?” 

“What for screw mine face?” repeated Jacob soberly; 
“vy, it vash de—de-” 

“The what?” insisted Ben, maliciously. 

“Vy, de—de—vat you call dis, vat you taste mit de 
nose?” 

Ben laughed. 

“Oh, you mean the smell.” 

“Yesh. Dat ish it,” said Jacob eagerly—“it wash de 
shmell. I draw mine face for dat!” 

“Ha! ha!” roared Ben, “that’s a good one. A Dutch boy 
smell a cheese. You can never make me believe that!” 

“Veil, it ish no matter,” replied Jacob, trudging on 
beside Ben in perfect good humor—“vait till you hit mit 
cheese—dat ish all.” 

Soon he added pathetically—“Penchamin, I no likes be 
call Tutch—dat ish no goot. I bees a Hollander.” 

Just as Ben was apologizing, Lambert hailed him. 

“Hold up! Ben. Here is the Fish Market. There is not 
much to be seen at this season. But we can take a look at 
the storks if you wish.” 

Ben knew that storks were held in peculiar reverence in 
Holland, and that the bird figured upon the arms of the 
Capital. He had noticed cart-wheels placed upon the roofs 
of Dutch cottages to entice storks to settle upon them; he 
had seen their huge nests, too, on many a thatched gable 
roof from Broek to the Hague. But it was winter now. 
The nests were empty. No greedy birdlings opened their 
mouths—or rather their heads—at the approach of a great 




Through the Hague 


197 


white winged thing, with outstretched neck and legs, bear¬ 
ing a dangling something for their breakfast. The long- 
bills were far away, picking up food on African shores; and 
before they would return in the spring, Ben’s visit to the 
land of dykes would be over. 

Therefore he pressed eagerly forward, as Van Mounen 
led the way through the fish market, anxious to see if storks 
in Holland were anything like the melancholy specimens 
he had seen in the Zoological Gardens of London. 

It was the same old story. A tamed bird is a sad bird, 
say what you will. These storks lived in a sort of kennel, 
chained by the feet like felons, though supposed to be hon¬ 
ored by being kept at the public expense. In summer they 
were allowed to walk about the market, where the fish-stalls 
were like so many free dining-saloons to them. Untasted 
delicacies in the form of raw fish and butcher’s offals, lay 
about their kennels now, but the city-guests preferred to 
stand upon one leg, curving back their long neck and lean¬ 
ing their head sidewise, in a blinking reverie. How gladly 
they would have changed their petted state, for the busy 
life of some hard-working stork mother, or father, bringing 
up a troublesome family on the roof of a rickety old build¬ 
ing, where flapping windmills frightened them half to death 
every time they ventured forth on a frolic. 

Ben soon made up his mind, and rightly, too, that the 
Hague with its fine streets and public parks shaded with 
elms, was a magnificent city. The prevailing costume was 
like that of London or Paris, and his British ears were 
many a time cheered by the music of British words. The 
shops were different in many respects from those on Oxford 
Street and the Strand, but they often were illumined by a 
printed announcement that English was 4 'spoken within.” 
Others proclaimed themselves to have London Stout for 
sa l e _ an( i one actually promised to regale its customers 
with English roast beef. 



198 


Hans Brinker 


Over every possible shop-door was the never-failing 
placard, “Tabak te Koop” (tobacco to be sold). Instead of 
colored glass globes in the windows, or high jars of leeches, 
the drug-stores had a gaping Turk’s head at the entrance 
—or, if the establishment were particularly fine, a wooden 
mandarin entire, indulging in a full yawn. 

Some of these queer faces amused Ben exceedingly; they 
seemed to have just swallowed a dose of physic; but Van 
Mounen declared he could not see anything funny about 
them. A druggist showed his sense by putting a Gaper 
before his door, so that his place could be known at once as 
an “apotheek”—and that was all there was about it. 

Another thing attracted Ben—the milkmen’s carts. 
These were small affairs, filled with shiny brass kettles, or 
stone jars, and drawn by dogs. The milkman walked 
meekly beside his cart, keeping his dog in order, and deliv¬ 
ering the milk to customers. Certain fish dealers had dog¬ 
carts, also, and when a herring-dog chanced to meet a milk- 
dog, he invariably put on airs and growled as he passed 
him. Sometimes a milk-dog would recognize an acquaint¬ 
ance before another milk-cart across the street, and then 
how the kettles would rattle, especially if they were empty! 
Each dog would give a bound and, never caring for his 
master’s whistle, insist upon meeting the other half-way. 
Sometimes they contented themselves with an inquisitive 
sniff, but generally the smaller dog made an affectionate 
snap at the larger one’s ear, or a friendly tussle was 
engaged in by way of exercise. Then woe! to the milk ket¬ 
tles, and woe! to the dogs! 

The whipping over, each dog, expressing his feelings as 
best he could, would trot leisurely back to his work. 

If some of these animals were eccentric in their ways, 
others were remarkably well-behaved. In fact, there was a 
school for dogs in the city, established expressly for train¬ 
ing them; Ben probably saw some of its graduates. Many 



Through the Hague 


199 


a time he noticed a span of barkers trotting along the street 
with all the dignity of horses, obeying the slightest hint of 
the man walking briskly beside them. Sometimes, when 
their load was delivered, the dealer would jump in the cart, 
and have a fine drive to his home beyond the gates of the 
city; and sometimes, I regret to say, a patient vrouw would 
trudge beside the cart, with fish-basket upon her head, and 
a child in her arms—while her lord enjoyed his drive, car¬ 
rying no heavier burden than a stumpy clay pipe, the smoke 
of which mounted lovingly into her face. 




A DAY OF REST 

The sightseeing came to an end at last, and so did our 
boys’ visit to the Hague. They had spent three happy days 
and nights with the Van Gends, and, strange to say, had 
not once, in all that time, put on skates. The third day had 
indeed been one of rest. The noise and bustle of the city 
was hushed; sweet Sunday bells sent blessed, tranquil 
thoughts into their hearts. Ben felt, as he listened to their 
familiar music, that the Christian world is one, after all, 
however divided by sects and differences it may be. As the 
clock speaks every one’s native language in whatever land 
it may strike the hour, so church-bells are never foreign if 
our hearts but listen. 

Led on by those clear voices, our party, with Mevrouw 
van Gend and her husband, trod the quiet but crowded 
streets, until they came to a fine old church in the southern 
part of the city. 

The interior was large and, notwithstanding its great 
stained windows, seemed dimly lighted, though the walls 
were white, and dashes of red and purple sunshine lay 
brightly upon pillar and pew. 

Ben saw a few old women moving softly through the 
200 














A Day of Rest 


201 


aisles, each bearing a high pile of foot-stoves which she dis¬ 
tributed among the congregation by skillfully slipping out 
the under one, until none were left. It puzzled him that 
mynheer should settle himself with the boys in a comfort¬ 
able side-pew, after seating his vrouw in the body of the 
church, which was filled with chairs exclusively appropri¬ 
ated to the women. But Ben was learning only a common 
custom of the country. 

The pews of the nobility and the dignitaries of the city 
were circular in form, each surrounding a column. Elab¬ 
orately carved, they formed a massive base to their great 
pillars standing out in bold relief against the blank, white 
walls beyond. These columns, lofty and well-proportioned, 
were nicked and defaced from violence done to them long 
ago; yet it seemed quite fitting that, before they were lost 
in the deep arches overhead, their softened outlines should 
leaf out as they did into richness and beauty. 

Soon, Ben lowered his gaze to the marble floor. It was a 
pavement of gravestones. Nearly all the large slabs, of 
which it was composed, marked the resting-places of the 
dead. An armorial design engraved upon each stone, with 
inscription and date, told whose form was sleeping beneath, 
and sometimes three of a family were lying one above the 
other in the same sepulchre. 

He could not but think of the solemn funeral procession 
winding by torch-light through those lofty aisles, and bear¬ 
ing its silent burden toward a dark opening whence a slab 
had been lifted, in readiness for its coming. It was some¬ 
thing to feel that his sister Mabel, who died in her flower, 
was lying in a sunny church-yard, where a brook rippled 
and sparkled in the daylight, and waving trees whispered 
together all night long; where flowers might nestle close to 
the headstone and moon and stars shed their peace upon it, 
and morning birds sing sweetly overhead. 

Then he looked up from the pavement and rested his eyes 
upon the carved, oaken pulpit, exquisitely beautiful in 



202 


Hans Brinker 


design and workmanship. He could not see the minister— 
though, not long before, he had watched him slowly ascend¬ 
ing its winding stair—a mild-faced man wearing a ruff 
about his neck, and a short cloak reaching nearly to the 
knee. 

Meantime the great church had been silently filling. Its 
pews were sombre with men and its centre radiant with 
women in their fresh Sunday attire. Suddenly a soft 
rustling spread through the building. All eyes were turned 
toward the minister now appearing above the pulpit. 

Although the sermon was spoken slowly, Ben could 
understand little of what was said; but when the hymn 
came, he joined in with all his heart. A thousand voices 
lifted in love and praise, offered a grander language that 
he could readily comprehend. 

Once he was startled, during a pause in the service, by 
seeing a little bag suddenly shaken before him. It had a 
tinkling bell at its side, and was attached to a long stick car¬ 
ried by one of the deacons of the church. Not relying solely 
upon the mute appeal of the poor-boxes fastened to the col¬ 
umns near the entrance, this more direct method was 
resorted to, of awakening the sympathies of the charitable. 

Fortunately Ben had provided himself with a few stivers, 
or the musical bag must have tinkled before him in vain. 

More than once, a dark look rose on our English boy’s 
face that morning. He longed to stand up and harangue 
the people concerning a peculiarity that filled him with 
pain. Some of the men wore their hats during the service, 
or took them off whenever the humor prompted, and many 
put theirs on in the church as soon as they arose to leave. 
No wonder Ben’s sense of propriety was wounded; and yet 
a higher sense would have been exercised had he tried to 
feel willing that Hollanders should follow the customs of 
their country. But his English heart said over and over 
again, “It is outrageous! it is sinful!” 

There is an Angel called Charity who often would save 
our hearts a great deal of trouble if we would but let her in. 




On Monday morning, bright and early, our boys bade 
farewell to their kind entertainers and started on their 
homeward journey. 

Peter lingered a while at the lion-guarded door, for he 
and his sister had many parting words to say. 

As Ben saw them bidding each other “good-bye,” he 
could not help feeling that kisses as well as clocks were won¬ 
derfully alike everywhere. The English kiss that his sister 
Jennie gave when he left home had said the same thing to 
him that the Yrouw van Gend’s Butch kiss said to Peter. 
Ludwig had taken his share of the farewell in the most 
matter-of-fact manner possible, and though he loved his 
sister well, had winced a little at her making such a child 
of him as to put an extra kiss “for mother’’ upon his fore¬ 
head. 

He was already upon the canal with Carl and Jacob. 
Were they thinking about sisters or kisses? Not a bit of it. 
They were so happy to be on skates once more, so impatient 
to dart at once into the 1 very heart of Broek, that they spun 

203 





204 


Hans Brinker 


and wheeled about like crazy fellows, relieving themselves, 
meantime, by muttering something about “ Peter and don- 
der” not worth translating. 

Even Lambert and Ben who had been waiting at the 
street-corner began to grow impatient. 

The captain joined them at last; they were soon on the 
canal with the rest. 

“Hurry up, Peter,’’ growled Ludwig—“we’re freezing 
by inches—there! I knew you’d be the last after all to get 
on your skates!” 

“Did you?” said his brother looking up with an air of 
deep interest—“clever boy!” 

Ludwig laughed, but tried to look cross, as he said— 
“I’m in earnest, anyhow. We must get home some time 
this year.” 

“Now, boys,” cried Peter springing up, as he fastened 
the last buckle. “There’s a clear way before us! We will 
imagine it’s the grand race. Ready! One—two—three— 
start!” 

I assure you very little was said for the first half hour. 
They were six Mercuries skimming the ice. In plain Eng¬ 
lish they went like lightning—no, that is imaginary too. 
The fact is, one cannot decide what to say when half a dozen 
boys are whizzing past at such a rate. I can only tell you 
that each did his best, flying, with bent body, and eager eyes, 
in and out among the placid skaters on the canal, until the 
very guard shouted to them to ‘ ‘ Hold up! ” This only served 
to send them onward with a two-boy power that startled all 
beholders. 

But the laws of inertia are stronger even than canal 
guards. 

After a while Jacob slackened his speed—then Ludwig— 
then Lambert—then Carl. 

They soon halted to take a long breath, and finally found 
themselves standing in a group gazing after Peter and Ben 



Homeward Bound 


205 


who were still racing in the distance as if their lives were 
at stake. 

“It is very evident,” said Lambert, as he and his three 
companions started on again, “that neither of them will 
give up until he can’t help it.” 

“What foolishness!” growled Carl, “to tire themselves 
at the beginning of the journey—but they’re racing in 
earnest—that’s certain. Hollo! Peter’s flagging!” 

“Not so!” cried Ludwig—“catch him being beaten!” 

“Ha! ha!” sneered Carl. “I tell you, boy, Benjamin is 
ahead.” 

Now if Ludwig disliked anything in this world, it was to 
be called a boy—probably because he was nothing else. He 
grew indignant at once. 

“Humph, what are you, I wonder*? There, sir! now look 
and see if Peter isn’t ahead!” 

“I think he is/’ interposed Lambert, “but I can’t quite 
tell at this distance.” 

“7 think he isn’t!” retorted Carl. 

Jacob was growing anxious—he always abhorred an 
argument—so he said in a coaxing tone—“Don’t quarrel— 
don’t quarrel!” 

“Don’t quarrel!” mocked Carl, looking back at Jacob as 
he skated. ‘ ‘ Who’s quarreling ? Poot, you ’re a goose! ’ ’ 

‘ 4 1 can’t help that, ’ ’ was Jacob’s meek reply. “ See! they 
are nearing the turn of the canal.” 

“Now we can see!” cried Ludwig in great excitement. 

“Peter will make it first, I know.” 

“He can’t—for Ben is ahead!” insisted Carl. “Gunst! 
That ice-boat will run over him. No! he is clear! They’re 
a couple of geese anyhow. Hurrah! they’re at the turn. 
Who’s ahead?” 

“Peter!” cried Ludwig, joyfully. 

“Good for the captain!” shouted Lambert and Jacob. 

And Carl condescended to mutter: 



206 


Hans Brinker 


“It is Peter after all. I thought, all the time, that head 
fellow was Ben.” 

This turn in the canal had evidently been their goal, for 
the two racers came to a sudden halt after passing it. 

Carl said something about being “glad that they had 
sense enough to stop and rest,”—and the four boys skated 
on in silence to overtake their companions. 

All the while, Carl was secretly wishing that he had kept 
on with Peter and Ben, as he felt sure he could easily have 
come out winner. He was a very rapid, though by no means 
a graceful skater. 

Ben was looking at Peter with mingled vexation, admira¬ 
tion and surprise, as the boys drew near. 

They heard him saying in English: 

“You’re a perfect bird on the ice, Peter van Holp. The 
first fellow that ever beat me in a fair race, I can tell you!” 

Peter, who understood the language better than he could 
speak it, returned a laughing bow at Ben’s compliment, but 
made no further reply. Possibly he was scant of breath 
at the time. 

“Now, Penchamin, vat you do mit yourself? get so hot 
as a fire-brick—dat ish no goot,” was Jacob’s plaintive 
comment. 

“Nonsense!” answered Ben. “This frosty air will cool 
me soon enough. I am not tired. ’ ’ 

“You are beaten, though, my boy,” said Lambert in Eng¬ 
lish, “and fairly, too. How will it be, I wonder, on the day 
of the grand race ? ’ ’ 

Ben flushed, and gave a proud, defiant laugh, as if to say: 

“This was mere pastime. I’m determined to beat then, 
come what will! ’ ’ 




By the time the boys reached the village of Voorhout 
which stands near the grand canal, about half-way between 
the Hague and Haarlem, they were forced to hold a council. 
The wind, though moderate at first, had grown stronger 
and stronger, until at last they could hardly skate against 
it. The weather-vanes throughout the country had evi¬ 
dently entered into a conspiracy. 

“No use trying to face such a blow as this,” said Ludwig. 
“It cuts its way down a man’s throat like a knife.” 

“Keep your mouth shut, then,” grunted the affable Carl, 
who was strong-chested as a young ox. “I’m for keeping 
on.” 

“In this case,” interposed Peter, “we must consult the 
weakest of the party rather than the strongest.” 

The captain’s principle was all right, but its application 
was not flattering to Master Ludwig; shrugging his 
shoulders, he retorted: 

“Who’s weak? Not I; for one—but the wind’s stronger 
than any of us. I hope you’ll condescend to admit that!” 

207 


























208 


Hans Brinker 


“Ha! ha!” laughed Van Mounen, who could barely keep 
his feet, “so it is.” 

Just then the weather-vanes telegraphed to each other by 
a peculiar twitch—and, in an instant, the gust came. It 
nearly threw the strong-chested Carl; it almost strangled 
Jacob; and quite upset Ludwig. 

“This settles the question,” shouted Peter; “off with 
your skates! We’ll go into Voorhout.” 

At Voorhout they found a little inn with a big yard. The 
yard was well bricked, and better than all, was provided 
with a complete set of skittles, so our boys soon turned the 
detention into a frolic. The wind was troublesome even in 
that sheltered quarter, but they were on good standing- 
ground—and did not mind it. 

First a hearty dinner—then the game. With pins as long 
as their arms, and balls as big as their heads, plenty of 
strength left for rolling, and a clean sweep of sixty yards 
for the strokes—no w T onder they were happy. 

That night Captain Peter and his men slept soundly. No 
prowling robber came to disturb them; and, as they were 
distributed in separate rooms, they did not even have a 
bolster-battle in the morning. 

Such a breakfast as they ate! The landlord looked fright¬ 
ened. When he had asked them where they “belonged,” 
he made up his mind that the Broek people starved their 
children. It was a shame, “such fine voung gentlemen, 
too!” 

Fortunately the wind had tired itself out, and fallen 
asleep in the great sea-cradle beyond the Dunes. There 
were signs of snow; otherwise, the weather was fine. 

It was mere child’s play for the well-rested boys to skate 
to Leyden. Here they halted a while, for Peter had an 
errand at the “Golden Eagle.” He left the city with a light¬ 
ened heart; Dr. Boekman had been at the hotel, read the 
note containing Hans’ message, and departed for Broek. 



Boys and Girls 


209 


“I cannot say it was your letter that sent him off so 
soon,” explained the landlord; “some rich lady in Broek 
was taken bad very sudden, and he was sent for in haste.” 

Peter turned pale. 

“What was the name?” he asked. 

“Indeed, it went in one ear, and out of the other—for 
all I hindered it. Plague to people who can’t see a traveler 
in comfortable lodgings, but they must whisk him off 
before one can breathe.” 

“A lady in Broek, did you say?” 

“Yes,” very gruffly; “and other business, young 
master?” 

“No, mine host—except that I and my comrades here 
would like a bite of something, and a drink of hot coffee.” 

“Ah,” said the landlord, sweetly, “a bite you shall have, 
and coffee too, the finest in Leyden. Walk up to the stove, 
my masters—now I think again—that was a widow lady— 
from Rotterdam, I think they said—visiting at one Van 
Stoepel’s if I mistake not.” 

“Ah!” said Peter, greatly relieved. “They live in the 
white house by the Schlossen Mill—now, mynheer, the 
coffee, please!” 

“What a goose I was,” thought he, as the party left the 
Golden Eagle, “to feel so sure it was my mother—but she 
may be somebody’s mother, poor woman, for all that. Who 
can she be, I wonder?” 

There were not many upon the canal that day, between 
Leyden and Haarlem. However, as the boys neared 
Amsterdam, they found themselves once more in the midst 
of a moving throng. The big Ysbreeker 1 had been at work 
for the first time that season, but there was any amount of 
skating ground left yet. 

(1) Ice-breaker—A heavy machine armed with iron spikes for breaking the 
ice as it is dragged along. Some of the small ones are worked by men—but the 
large ones are drawn by horses—sixty or seventy of which are sometimes attached 
to one Ysbreeker. 




210 


Hans Brinker 


“Three cheers for home!” cried Van Mounen, as they 
came in sight of the great Western dock (Westelijk Dok). 
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” shouted one and all. “Hurrah! 
Hurrah!” 

This trick of cheering was an importation among our 
party. Lambert van Mounen had brought it from England. 
As they always gave it in English, it was considered quite 
an exploit, when circumstances permitted, always enthusi¬ 
astically performed, to the sore dismay of their quiet-loving 
countrymen. 

Therefore, their arrival at Amsterdam created a great 
sensation, especially among the small boys on the wharfs. 

The Y was crossed. They were on the Broek canal. 

Lambert’s home was reached first. 

‘ ‘ Good-bye, boys! ” he cried, as he left them. “ We’ve had 
the greatest frolic ever known in Holland.” 

“So we have. Good-bye, Van Mounen!” answered the 
boys. 

“Good-bye!” 

Peter hailed him. “I say, Van Mounen, the classes begin 
to-morrow!” 

“I know it. Our holiday is over. Good-bye, again.” 

“Good-bye!” 

Broek came in sight. Such meetings! Katrinka was on 
the canal! Carl was delighted. Hilda was there! Peter 
felt rested in an instant. Rychie was there! Ludwig and 
Jacob nearly knocked each other over in their eagerness to 
shake hands with her. 

Dutch giris are modest and generally quiet; but they 
have very glad eyes. For a few moments, it was hard to 
decide whether Hilda, Rychie or Katrinka felt the most 
happy. 

Annie Bouman was also on the canal, looking even pret¬ 
tier than the other maidens, in her graceful, peasant’s cos- 



Boys and Girls 


211 


tume. But she did not mingle with Rychie’s party; neither 
did she look unusually happy. 

The one she liked most to see was not among the new¬ 
comers. Indeed he was not upon the canal at all. She had 
not been near Broek before, since the Eve of St. Nicholas, 
for she was staying with her sick grandmother in Amster¬ 
dam, and had been granted a brief resting-spell, as the 
grandmother called it, because she had been such a faithful 
little nurse night and day. 

Annie had devoted her resting-spell to skating with all 
her might toward Broek, and back again, in the hope of 
meeting her mother or some of her family on the canal, or, 
it might be, Gretel Brinker—Not one of them had she seen 
—and she must hurry back, without ever catching a glimpse 
of her mother’s cottage—for the poor helpless grand¬ 
mother, she knew, was by this time moaning for some one 
to turn her upon her cot. 

“Where can Gretel be"?” thought Annie, as she flew over 
the ice. “She can almost always steal a few moments from 
her work at this time of day—poor Gretel—what a dreadful 
thing it must be to have a dull father—I should be wofully 
afraid of him, I know—So strong, and yet so strange!” 

Annie had not heard of his illness. Dame Brinker and 
her affairs received but little notice from the people of the 
place. 

If Gretel had not been known as a goose-girl she might 
have had more friends among the peasantry of the neigh¬ 
borhood. As it was, Annie Bouman was the only one who 
did not feel ashamed to avow herself by word and deed the 
companion of Gretel and Hans. 

When the neighbors’ children laughed at her for keeping 
such poor company, she would simply flush when Hans was 
ridiculed, or laugh in a careless, disdainful way; but to hear 
little Gretel abused always awakened her wrath. 

“Goose-girl, indeed!” she would say. “I can tell you 



212 


Hans Drinker 


any of you are fitter for the work than she. My father 
often said last summer that it troubled him to see such a 
bright-eyed, patient little maiden tending geese. Humph! 
She would not harm them, as you would, Janzoon Kolp; 
and she would not tread upon them, as you might, Kate 
Wouters.” 

This would be pretty sure to start a laugh at the clumsy, 
ill-natured Kate’s expense; and Annie would walk loftily 
away from the group of young gossips. Perhaps some 
memory of Gretel’s assailants crossed her mind as she 
skated rapidly toward Amsterdam, for her eyes sparkled 
ominously and she more than once gave her pretty head a 
defiant toss. When that mood passed, such a bright, rosy, 
affectionate look illumined her face, that more than one 
weary working man turned to gaze after her, and to wish 
that he had a glad contented lass like that for a daughter. 

There were five joyous households in Broek that night. 

The boys were back safe and sound; and they found all 
well at home. Even the sick lady at neighbor Van Stoepel’s 
was out of danger. 

But the next morning! Ah, how stupidly schoolbells will 
ding-dong! ding-dong, when one is tired. 

Ludwig was sure he had never listened to anything so 
odious. Even Peter felt pathetic on the occasion. Carl said 
it was a shame for a fellow to have to turn out when his 
bones were splitting—and Jacob soberly bade Ben “Goot- 
Pye!” and walked off with his satchel as if it weighed a 
hundred pounds. 




THE CRISIS 

While the boys are nursing their fatigue, we will take 
a peep into the Brinker cottage. 

Can it be that Gretel and her mother have not stirred 
since we saw them last? That the sick man upon the bed 
has not even turned over? It was four days ago and there 
is the sad group just as it was before. No, not precisely the 
same, for Raff Brinker is paler; his fever is gone, though he 
knows nothing of what is passing. Then, they were alone 
in the bare, clean room. Now there is another group in an 
opposite corner. 

Dr. Boekman is there, talking in a low tone with a stout 
young man who listens intently. The stout young man is 

213 
































214 


Hans Brinker 


his student and assistant. Hans is there also. He stands 
near the window respectfully waiting until he shall be 
accosted. 

“ You see, Yollenhoven,” said Dr. Boekman, “it is a clear 
case of”—and here the doctor went oft* into a queer jumble 
of Latin and Dutch that I cannot conveniently translate. 

After a while, as Yollenhoven looked at him rather 
blankly, the learned man condescended to speak to him in 
simpler phrase. 

“It is probably like Rip Donderdunck’s case,” he ex¬ 
plained, in a low, mumbling tone. “He fell from the top of 
Yoppelploot’s windmill. After the accident the man was 
stupid, and finally became idiotic. In time he lay helpless 
like yon fellow on the bed, moaned, too, like him, and kept 
constantly lifting his hand to his head. My learned friend 
Yon Choppem performed an operation upon this Donder- 
dunck, and discovered under the skull a small dark sac, 
which pressed upon the brain. This had been the cause of 
the trouble. My friend Yon Choppem removed it—a splen¬ 
did operation! You see according to Celsus”—and here 
the doctor again went off into Latin. 

“Did the man live?” asked the assistant, respectfully. 

Dr. Boekman scowled. “That is of no consequence. I 
believe he died, but why not fix your mind on the grand 
features of the case? Consider a moment how”—and he 
plunged into Latin mysteries more deeply than ever. 

“But, mynheer,” gently persisted the student, who knew 
that the doctor would not rise to the surface for hours 
unless pulled at once from his favorite depths. “Mynheer, 
you have other engagements to-day, three legs in Amster¬ 
dam, you remember, and an eye in Broek, and that tumor 
up the canal.” 

“The tumor can wait,” said the doctor reflectively. 
“That is another beautiful case—a beautiful case! The 



The Crisis 


215 


woman has not lifted her head from her shoulder for two 
months—magnificent tumor, sir!” 

The doctor by this time was speaking aloud. He had 
quite forgotten where he was. 

Yollenhoven made another attempt. 

“This poor fellow on the bed, mynheer. Do you think 
you can save him?” 

“Ah, indeed, certainly,” stammered the doctor, suddenly 
perceiving that he had been talking rather oft the point— 
“certainly, that is—I hope so-” 

“If any one in Holland can, mynheer,” murmured the 
assistant with honest bluntness—“it is yourself.” 

The doctor looked displeased—growled out a tender 
request for the student to talk less, and beckoned Hans to 
draw near. 

This strange man had a great horror of speaking to 
women, especially on surgical matters. “One can never 
tell,” he said, “what moment the creatures will scream or 
faint.’’ Therefore he explained Raff Brinker’s case to 
Hans and told him what he believed should be done to save 
the patient. 

Hans listened attentively, growing red and pale by turns, 
and throwing quick, anxious glances toward the bed. 

“It may kill the father—did you say, mynheer?” he 
exclaimed at last, in a trembling whisper. 

“It may, my boy. But I have a strong belief that it will 
cure and not kill. Ah! if boys were not such dunces, I could 
lay the whole matter before you, but it would be of no use.” 

Hans looked blank at this compliment. 

“It would be of no use,” repeated Dr. Boekman indig¬ 
nantly; “a great operation is proposed—but one might as 
well do it with a hatchet. The only question asked is—‘will 
it kill?’ ” 

“The question is everything to us, mynheer,” said Hans, 
with tearful dignity. 




216 


Hans Brinker 


Dr. Boekman looked at him in sudden dismay. 

“Ah! exactly so. You are right, boy, I am a fool. Good 
boy. One does not wish one’s father killed—of course not. 
I am a fool.” 

“Will he die, mynheer, if this sickness goes on?” 

“Humph! this is no new illness. The same thing growing 
worse every instant—pressure on the brain—will take him 
off soon like that,” said the doctor, snapping his fingers. 

“And the operation may save him,” pursued Hans. 
“How soon, mynheer, can we know?” 

Dr. Boekman grew impatient. 

“In a day, perhaps, an hour. Talk with your mother, 
boy, and let her decide. My time is short.” 

Hans approached his mother; at first, when she looked 
up at him, he could not utter a syllable; then turning his 
eyes away he said in a firm voice: 

“I must speak with the mother alone.” 

Quick little Gretel, who could not quite understand what 
was passing, threw rather an indignant look at Hans, and 
walked away. 

“Come back, Gretel, and sit down,” said Hans sorrow¬ 
fully. 

She obeyed. 

Dame Brinker and her boy stood by the window while 
the doctor and his assistant, bending over the bedside, con¬ 
versed together in a low tone. There was no danger of dis¬ 
turbing the patient. He appeared like one blind and deaf. 
Only his faint, piteous moans showed him to be a living 
man. Hans was talking earnestly, and in a low voice, for he 
did not wish his sister to hear. 

With dry, parted lips, Dame Brinker leaned toward him 
searching his face, as if suspecting a meaning beyond his 
words. Once she gave a quick, frightened sob that made 
Gretel start, but, after that, listened calmly. 

When Hans ceased to speak, his mother turned, gave one 



The Crisis 


217 


long, agonized look at her husband, lying there so pale and 
unconscious, and threw herself on her knees, beside the bed. 

Poor little Gretel! what did all this mean? She looked 
with questioning eyes at Hans; he was standing, but his 
head was bent as if in prayer;—at the doctor; he was gently 
feeling her father’s head, and looked like one examining 
some curious stone;—at the assistant; the man coughed and 
turned away;—at her mother; Ah! little Gretel, that was 
the best you could do—to kneel beside her and twine your 
warm, young arms about her neck—to weep and implore 
God to listen. 

When the mother arose, Dr. Boekman, with a show of 
trouble in his eyes, asked gruffly, 6 ‘ Well, jufvrouw, shall it 
be done?” 

“Will it pain him, mynheer?” she asked in a trembling 
voice. 

“I cannot say. Probably not. Shall it be done?” 

“It may cure him, you said, and—mynheer, did you tell 
my boy that—perhaps—perhaps”—she could not finish. 

“Yes, jufvrouw, I said the patient might sink under the 
operation—but we will hope it may prove otherwise. ” (He 
looked at his watch. The assistant moved impatiently 
toward the window.) “Come, jufvrouw, time presses. Yes, 
or no?” 

Hans wound his arm about his mother. It was not his 
usual way. He even leaned his head against her shoulder. 

“The meester awaits an answer,” he whispered. 

Dame Brinker had long been the head of her house in 
every sense—Many a time she had been very stern with 
Hans, ruling him with a strong hand, and rejoicing in her 
motherly discipline— now she felt so weak, so helpless. It 
was something to feel that firm embrace. There was 
strength even in the touch of that yellow hair. 

She turned to her boy imploringly. 

“Oh, Hans! What shall I say?” 



218 


Hans Brinker 


“Say what God tells thee, mother,’’ answered Hans, bow¬ 
ing his head. 

One quick, questioning prayer to Heaven rose from the 
mother’s heart. 

The answer came. 

She turned toward Hr. Boekman. 

“It is right, mynheer. 1 consent.” 

“Humph!” grunted the doctor, as if to say, “You’ve been 
long enough about it.” Then he conferred a moment with 
his assistant, who listened with great outward deference 
but was inwardly rejoicing at the grand joke he would have 
to tell his fellow students. He had actually seen a tear in 
“old Boekman’s” eye. 

Meanwhile Gretel looked on in trembling silence—but 
when she saw the doctor open a leathern case, and take out 
one sharp, gleaming instrument after another, she sprang 
forward. 

‘ 4 Oh, mother—the poor father meant no wrong. Are they 
going to murder him?” 

“I do not know, child,” screamed Dame Brinker looking 
fiercely at Gretel. “i do not know.” 

“This will not do, jufvrouw,” said Dr. Boekman sternly, 
and at the same time he cast a quick, penetrating look at 
Hans—“you and the girl must leave the room. The boy 
may stay.” 

Dame Brinker drew herself up in an instant. Her eyes 
flashed. Her whole countenance was changed.. She looked 
like one who had never wept, never felt a moment’s weak¬ 
ness. Her voice was low but decided. “I stay with my 
husband, mynheer.” 

Dr. Boekman looked astonished. His orders were sel¬ 
dom disregarded in this style. For an instant his eye met 
hers. 

“You may remain, jufvrouw,” he said in an altered 
voice. 



The Crisis 


219 


Gretel had already disappeared. 

In one corner of the cottage was a small closet where her 
rough, box-like bed was fastened against the wall: none 
would think of the trembling little creature crouching there 
in the dark. 

Dr. Boekman took off his heavy coat; he filled an earthen 
basin with water and placed it near the bed. Then turning 
to Hans he asked: 

“Can I depend upon you, boy?” 

“You can, mynheer.” 

“I believe you. Stand at the head, here—your mother 
may sit at your right—so,” and he placed a chair near the 
cot. 

“Remember, jufvrouw, there must be no cries, no 
fainting.” 

Dame Brinker answered him with a look. 

He was satisfied. 

“Now, Vollenhoven.” 

Oh! that case with the terrible instruments. The assistant 
lifted them. Gretel who had been peering, with brimming 
eyes, through the crack of the closet door, could remain 
silent no longer. 

She rushed frantically across the apartment, seized her 
hood, and ran from the cottage. 




GRETEL AND HILDA 

It was recess hour. At the first stroke of the school- 
house bell, the canal seemed to give a tremendous shout, 
and grow suddenly alive with boys and girls. The sly 
thing, shining so quietly under the noonday sun, was a 
kaleidoscope at heart, and only needed a shake from that 
great clapper to start it into dazzling changes. 

Dozens of gaily clad children were skating in and out 
among each other, and all their pent-up merriment of the 
morning was relieving itself in song and shout and laugh¬ 
ter. There was nothing to check the flow of frolic. Not a 
thought of school-books came out with them into the sun¬ 
shine. Latin, Arithmetic, Grammar, all were locked up for • 
an hour in the dingy schoolroom. The teacher might be a 
noun if he wished, and a proper one at that, but they meant 
to enjoy themselves. As long as the skating was as perfect 
as this, it made no difference whether Holland were on the 
North Pole or the Equator; and, as for Philosophy, how 
could they bother themselves about inertia and gravitation 
and such things, when it was as much as they could do to 
keep from getting knocked over in the commotion. 

In the height of the fun, one of the children called out: 

“What is that'?” 


220 



















Gretel and Hilda 


221 


“What? Where?” cried a dozen voices. 

“Why—don’t you see? That dark thing over there by 
the idiot’s cottage.” 

“I don’t see anything,” said one. 

“I do,” shouted another, “it’s a dog!” 

“Where’s any dog?” put in a squeaky voice that we have 
heard before—“It’s no such thing—it’s a heap of rags.” 

“Pooh! Yoost,” retorted another gruffly, “that’s about 
as near the fact as you ever get; it’s the goose girl, Gretel, 
looking for rats.” 

“Well, what of it?” squeaked Yoost; “isn’t she a bundle 
of rags, I’d like to know?” 

“Ha! ha! Pretty good for you, Yoost! You’ll get a 
medal for wit yet, if you keep on.” 

“You’d get something else, if her brother Hans were 
here. I’ll warrant you would!” said a muffled-up little 
fellow, with a cold in his head. 

As Hans was not there, Yoost could afford to scout the 
insinuation. 

“Who cares for him, little sneezer? I’d fight a dozen 
like him any day, and you in the bargain.” 

“You would! would you? I’d like to catch you at it,” 
and, by way of proving his words, the sneezer skated off 
at the top of his speed. 

Just then a general chase after three of the biggest boys 
of the school was proposed,—and friend and foe, frolicsome 
as ever, were soon united in a common cause. 

Only one of all that happy throng remembered the dark 
little form by the idiot’s cottage. Poor, frightened Gretel! 
She was not thinking of them, though their merry laugh¬ 
ter floated lightly toward her, making her feel like one in 
a dream. 

How loud the moans were behind the darkened window 
—What if those strange men were really killing her father! 



222 


Hans Brinker 


The thought made her spring to her feet with a cry of 
horror! 

“Ah! no,” she sobbed, sinking upon the frozen mound of 
earth where she had been sitting, “mother is there, and 
Hans. They will care for him. But how pale they were. 
And even Hans was crying! 

“Why did the cross old meester keep him, and send me 
away,” she thought. “I could have clung to the mother and 
kissed her. That always makes her stroke my hair and 
speak gentle, even after she has scolded me. How quiet it 
is now! Oh, if the father should die, and Hans, and the 
mother, what would I do?” and Gretel, shivering with cold, 
buried her face in her arms, and cried as if her heart would 
break. 

The poor child had been tasked beyond her strength dur¬ 
ing the past four days. Through all, she had been her 
mother’s willing little handmaiden, soothing, helping and 
cheering the half-widowed woman by day, and watching 
and praying beside her all the long night. She knew that 
something terrible and mysterious was taking place at this 
moment, something that had been too terrible and mys¬ 
terious for even kind, good Hans to tell. 

Then new thoughts came. Why had not Hans told her? 
It was a shame. It was her father as well as his. She was 
no baby. She had once taken a sharp knife from the 
father’s hand. She had even drawn him away from the 
mother on that awful night when Hans, big as he was, could 
not help her. Why then must she be treated like one who 
could do nothing? Oh, how very still it was--how bitter, 
bitter cold. If Annie Bouman had only stayed home 
instead of going to Amsterdam it wouldn’t be so lonely. 
How cold her feet were growing—was it the moaning that 
made her feel as if she were floating in the air ? 

This would not do—the mother might need her help at 
any moment! 



Gretel and Hilda 


223 


Rousing herself with an effort, Gretel sat upright, rub¬ 
bing her eyes and wondering—wondering that the sky was 
so bright and blue—wondering at the stillness in the cot¬ 
tage—more than all, at the laughter rising and falling in 
the distance. 

Soon she sank down again, the strange medley of thought 
growing more and more confused in her bewildered brain. 

What a strange lip the meester had! How the stork’s 
nest upon the roof seemed to rustle and whisper down to 
her! How bright those knives were, in the leathern case— 
brighter perhaps than the silver skates. If she had but 
worn her new jacket she would not shiver so. The new 
jacket was pretty—the only pretty thing she had ever 
worn. God had taken care of her father so long, ITe would 
do it still, if those two men would but go away. Ah, now 
the meesters were on the roof, they were clambering to the 
top—no—it was her mother and Hans,—or the storks—it 
was so dark who could tell ? and the mound rocking, swing¬ 
ing in that strange way. How sweetly the birds were sing¬ 
ing. They must be winter birds, for the air was thick with 
icicles—not one bird—but twenty. Oh! hear them, mother 
—wake me, mother, for the race—I am so tired with cry¬ 
ing, and crying- 

A firm hand was laid upon her shoulder. 

“Get up, little girl!” cried a kind voice. “This will not 
do for you to lie here and freeze.” 

Gretel slowly raised her head. She was so sleepy that it 
seemed nothing strange to her that Hilda van Gleck should 
be leaning over her, looking with kind, beautiful eyes into 
her face. She had often dreamed it before. 

But she had never dreamed that Hilda was shaking her 
roughly, almost dragging her by main force—never 
dreamed that she heard her saying, “Gretel! Gretel 
Brinker! you must wake!” 

This w^as real. Gretel looked up. Still the lovely deli- 



224 


Hans Brinker 


cate young lady was shaking, rubbing, fairly pounding her. 
It must be a dream. No, there was the cottage—and the 
stork’s nest, and the meester’s coach by the canal. She 
could see them now quite plainly. Her hands were tingling, 
her feet throbbing—Hilda was forcing her to walk. 

At last Gretel began to feel like herself again. 

“I have been asleep,” she faltered, rubbing her eyes with 
both hands and looking very much ashamed. 

“Yes, indeed, entirely too much asleep,” laughed Hilda, 
whose lips were very pale, “but you are well enough now— 
lean upon me, Gretel; there, keep moving—you will soon 
be warm enough to go by the fire—now let me take you into 
the cottage.” 

“Oh, no! no! no! jufvrouw, not in there! the meester is 
there. He sent me away!” 

Hilda was puzzled, but she wisely forbore to ask at pres¬ 
ent for an explanation. “Very well, Gretel—try to walk 
faster—I saw r you upon the mound some time ago; but I 
thought you were playing—that is right—keep moving.” 

All this time the kind-hearted girl had been forcing 
Gretel to walk up and down, supporting her with one arm, 
and, with the other, striving as well as she could to take off 
her own warm sacque. 

Suddenly Gretel suspected her intention. 

“Oh, jufvrouw! jufvrouw!” she cried imploringly. 
“Please never think of such a thing as that —oh! please 
keep it on, I am burning all over, jufvrouw! I really am 
burning—not burning exactly—but pins and needles prick¬ 
ing all over me—oh! jufvrouw, don’t!” 

The poor child’s dismay was so genuine that Hilda 
hastened to reassure her. 

“Very well, Gretel, move your arms then—so. Why, 
your cheeks are as pink as roses, already. I think the 
meester would let you in now—he certainly would—is your 
father so very ill?” 




225 








































































226 


Hans Brinker 


4 ‘Ah, jufvrouw,” cried Gretel, weeping afresh, “he is 
dying, I think. There are two meesters in with him at this 
moment, and the mother has scarce spoken today. Can you 
hear him moan, jufvrouw?” she added, with sudden terror; 
“the air buzzes so I cannot hear. He may be dead! oh, I 
do wish I could hear him 1” 

Hilda listened. The cottage was very near, but not a 
sound could be heard. 

Something told her that Gretel was right. She ran to the 
window. 

“You cannot see there, my lady,” sobbed Gretel eagerly; 
“the mother has oiled paper hanging inside. But at the 
other one, in the south end of the cottage, you can look in 
where the paper is torn.” 

Hilda in her anxiety ran round, past the corner where 
the low roof was fringed with its loosened thatch. 

A sudden thought checked her. 

“It is not right for me to peep into another’s house in 
this way,” she said to herself—then softly calling to Gretel, 
she added, in a whisper, “You may look—perhaps he is 
only sleeping.” 

Gretel tried to walk briskly toward the spot, but her 
limbs were trembling. Hilda hastened to her support. 

“You are sick, yourself, I fear,” she said kindly. 

“No, not sick, jufvrouw—but my heart cries all the time 
now, even when my eyes are as dry as yours—why! 
Jufvrouw, your eyes are not dry! Are you crying for us? 
Oh, jufvrouw—if God sees you! Oh! I know father will 

get better now-” and the little creature, even while 

reaching to look through the tiny window, kissed Hilda’s 
hand again and again. 

The sash was sadly patched and broken, a torn piece of 
paper hung half-way down across it. Gretel’s face was 
pressed to the window. 

“Can you see anything?” whispered Hilda at last. 



Gretel and Hilda 


227 


“Yes—the father lies very still, his head is bandaged 
and all their eyes are fastened upon him. Oh, jufvrouw!” 
almost screamed Gretel, as she started back, and by a quick, 
dexterous movement shook off her heavy wooden shoes, “I 
must go in to my mother! Will you come with me!” 

“Not now; the bell is ringing. I shall come again soon. 
Good-bye!” 

Gretel scarce heard the words. She remembered for 
many a day afterward the bright, pitying smile on Hilda’s 
face, as she turned away. 




An angel could not have entered the cottage more noise¬ 
lessly. Gretel, not daring to look at any one, slid softly to 
her mother’s side. 

The room was very still. She could hear the old doctor 
breathe. She could almost hear the sparks as they fell into 
the ashes on the hearth. The mother’s hand was very cold 
but a burning spot glowed on her cheek; and her eyes were 
like a deer’s—so bright, so sad, so eager. 

At last there was a movement upon the bed, very slight, 
but enough to cause them all to start; Dr. Boekman leaned 
eagerly forward. 

Another movement. The large hand, so white and soft 
for a poor man’s hand, twitched—then raised itself steadily 
toward the forehead. 

It felt the bandage, not in a restless, crazy way, but with 

228 


































The Awakening 


229 


a questioning movement, that caused even Dr. Boekman to 
hold his breath. Then the eyes opened slowly. 

“Steady! steady!” said a voice that sounded very 
strangely to Gretel. “Shift that mat higher, boys! now 
throw on the clay. The waters are rising fast—no time 
to-” 

Dame Brinker sprang forward like a young panther. 

She seized his hands, and leaning over him, cried, “Raff! 
Raff, boy, speak to me!” 

“Is it you, Meitje?” he asked faintly—“I have been 
asleep, hurt, I think—where is little Hans'?” 

“Here I am, father!” shouted Hans half mad with joy. 
But the doctor held him back. 

“He knows us!” screamed Dame Brinker. “Great God! 
he knows us! Gretel! Gretel! come, see your father!” 

In vain Dr. Boekman commanded “silence!” and tried 
to force them from the bedside. He could not keep them 
off. 

Hans and his mother laughed and cried together, as they 
hung over the newly-awakened man. Gretel made no sound, 
but gazed at them all with glad, startled eyes. Her father 
was speaking in a faint voice. 

“Is the baby asleep, Meitje?” 

“The baby!” echoed Dame Brinker. “Oh, Gretel! that 
is yow! And he calls Hans, Tittle Hans. ’ Ten years asleep! 
Oh, mynheer, you have saved us all. He has known nothing 
for ten years! Children, why don’t you thank the 
meester?” 

The good woman was beside herself with joy. Dr. Boek¬ 
man said nothing; but as his eye met hers, he pointed up¬ 
ward. She understood. So did Hans and Gretel. 

With one accord they knelt by the cot, side by side. Dame 
Brinker felt for her husband’s hand even while she was 
praying. Dr. Boekman’s head was bowed; the assistant 
stood by the hearth with his back toward them. 




230 


Hans Brinker 


“Why do you pray?” murmured the father, looking 
feebly from the bed, as they rose. “Is it God’s day?” 

It was not Sunday; but his vrouw bowed her head—she 
could not speak. 

“Then we should have a chapter,” said Raff Brinker, 
speaking slowly, and with difficulty. “I do not know how 
it is. I am very, very weak. Mayhap the minister will read 
to us.” 

Gretel lifted the big Dutch Bible from its carved shelf. 
Dr. Boekman, rather dismayed at being called a minister, 
coughed and handed the volume to his assistant. 

“Read,” he muttered; “these people must be kept quiet 
or the man will die yet.” 

When the chapter was finished, Dame Brinker motioned 
mysteriously to the rest by way of telling them that her 
husband was asleep. 

“Now, jufvrouw,” said the doctor in a subdued tone, as 
he drew on his thick woolen mittens, “there must be perfect 
quiet. You understand. This is truly a most remarkable 
case. I shall come again to-morrow. Give the patient no 
food to-day,” and, bowing hastily, he left the cottage, fol¬ 
lowed by his assistant. 

His grand coach was not far away; the driver had kept 
the horses moving slowly up and down by the canal, nearly 
all the time the doctor had been in the cottage. 

Hans went out also. 

“May God bless you, mynheer!” he said, blushing and 
trembling. “I can never repay you, but if-” 

“Yes, you can,” interrupted the doctor, crossly. “You 
can use your wits when the patient wakes again. This clack¬ 
ing and snivelling is enough to kill a well man, let alone one 
lying on the edge of his grave. If you want your father to 
get well, keep ’em quiet.” 




The Awakening 


231 


So saying, Dr. Boekman, without another word, stalked 
off, to meet his coach, leaving Hans standing there with 
eyes and mouth wide open. 


Hilda was reprimanded severely that day for returning 
late to school after recess, and for imperfect recitations. 

She had remained near the cottage until she heard Dame 
Brinker laugh, until she had heard Hans say, “Here I am, 
father!” and then she had gone back to her lessons. What 
wonder that she missed them! How could she get a long 
string of Latin verbs by heart, when her heart did not care 
a fig for them, but would keep saying to itself, “Oh, I am so 
glad! I am so glad!” 





BONES AND TONGUES 

Bones are strange things. One would suppose that they 
knew nothing at all about school affairs, but they do. Even 
Jacob Poot’s bones, buried as they were in flesh, were sharp 
in the matter of study hours. 

Early on the morning of his return they ached through 
and through, giving Jacob a twinge at every stroke of the 
school-bell—as if to say, “Stop that clapper! There’s 
trouble in it.” After school, on the contrary, they were 
quiet and comfortable; in fact, seemed to be taking a nap 
among their cushions. 

The other boys’ bones behaved in a similar manner—hut 
that is not so remarkable. Being nearer the daylight than 
Jacob’s, they might be expected to be more learned in the 
ways of the world. Master Ludwig’s, especially, were like 
beauty, only skin deep; they were the most knowing bones 
you ever heard of. Just put before him ever so quietly, a 

232 
















Bones and Tongues 


233 


Grammar-book with a long lesson marked in it, and imme¬ 
diately the sly bone over his eyes would set up such an ach¬ 
ing ! Request him to go to the garret for your foot-stove— 
instantly the bones would remind him that he was “too 
tired.” Ask him to go to the confectioner’s, a mile away, 
and presto! not a bone would remember that it ever had 
been used before. 

Bearing all this in mind you will not wonder when I tell 
you that our five boys were among the happiest of the 
happy throng pouring forth from the schoolhouse £hat day. 

Peter was in excellent spirits. He had heard through 
Hilda of Dame Brinker’s laugh and of Hans’ joyous words, 
and he needed no further proof that Raff Brinker was a 
cured man. In fact the news had gone forth in every direc¬ 
tion, for miles around. Persons who had never before cared 
for the Brinkers, or even mentioned them, except with a 
contemptuous sneer or a shrug of pretended pity, now 
became singularly familiar with every point of their his¬ 
tory. There was no end to the number of ridiculous stories 
that were flying about. 

Hilda, in the excitement of the moment, had stopped to 
exchange a word with the doctor’s coachman, as he stood by 
the horses, pommelling his chest and clapping his hands. 
Her kind heart was overflowing. She could not help paus¬ 
ing to tell the cold, tired-looking man that she thought the 
doctor would be out soon; she even hinted to him that she 
suspected—only suspected—that a wonderful cure had been 
performed—an idiot brought to his senses. Nay, she was 
sure of it—for she had heard his widow laugh—no, not his 
widow, of course, but his wife—for the man was as much 
alive as anybody, and, for all she knew, sitting up and talk¬ 
ing like a lawyer. 

All this was very indiscreet. Hilda in an impenitent sort 
of way felt it to be so. 



234 


Hans Brinker 


But it is always so delightful to impart pleasant or sur¬ 
prising news! 

She went tripping along by the canal, quite resolved to 
repeat the sin, ad infinitum, and tell nearly every girl and 
boy in the school. 

Meantime, Janzoon Kolp came skating by. Of course, in 
two seconds, he was striking slippery attitudes, and shout¬ 
ing saucy things to the coachman, who stared at him in 
indolent disdain. 

This, to Janzoon, was equivalent to an invitation to draw 
nearer. The coachman was now upon his box gathering- 
up the reins and grumbling at his horses. 

Janzoon accosted him. 

“I say. What’s going on at the idiot’s cottage? Is your 
boss in there?” 

Coachman nodded mysteriously. 

“Whew!” whistled Janzoon, drawing closer. “Old 
Brinker dead?” 

The driver grew big with importance, and silent in pro¬ 
portion. 

“See here, old pincushion, I’d run home yonder and get 
you a chunk of gingerbread if I thought you could open 
your mouth.” 

Old pincushion was human—long hours of waiting had 
made him ravenously hungry. At Janzoon’s hint, his coun¬ 
tenance showed signs of a collapse. 

“That’s right, old fellow,” pursued his tempter, “hurry 
up—what news—old Brinker dead?” 

“No— cured! got his wits,” said the coachman, shooting 
forth his words, one at a time, like so many bullets. 

Like bullets (figuratively speaking) they hit Janzoon 
Kolp. He jumped as if he had been shot. 

“Goede Gunst! you don’t say so!” 

The man pressed his lips together, and looked signifi¬ 
cantly toward Master Kolp’s shabby residence. 



Bones and Tongues 


235 


Just then Janzoon saw a group of boys in the distance. 
Hailing them in a rowdy style, common to boys of his stamp 
all over the world, whether in Africa, Japan, Amsterdam 
or Paris—he scampered toward them, forgetting coachman, 
gingerbread, everything but the wonderful news. 

Therefore by sundown it was well known throughout the 
neighboring country that Dr. Boekman chancing to stop at 
the cottage had given the idiot Brinker a tremendous dose 
•of medicine, as brown as gingerbread. It had taken six 
men to hold him while it was poured down. The idiot had 
immediately sprung to his feet, in full possession of all his 
faculties—knocked over the doctor, or thrashed him (there 
was admitted to be a slight uncertainty as to which of these 
penalties was inflicted), then sat down and addressed him 
for all the world like a lawyer. After that he had turned 
and spoken beautifully to his wife and children. Dame 
Brinker had laughed herself into violent hysterics. Hans 
had said, “Here I am, father! your own dear son,” and 
Gretel had said, “Here I am, father, your own dear 
Gretel!” and the doctor had afterward been seen leaning 
back in his carriage looking just as white as a corpse. 




A NEW ALARM 

When Dr. Boekman called the next day at the Brinker 
cottage, he could not help noticing the cheerful, comfort¬ 
able aspect of the place. An atmosphere of happiness 
breathed upon him as he opened the door. Dame Brinker 
sat complacently knitting beside the bed, her husband was 
enjoying a tranquil slumber, and Gretel was noiselessly 
kneading rye bread on the table in the corner. 

The doctor did not remain long. He asked a few simple 
questions, appeared satisfied with the answers, and after 
feeling his patient’s pulse, said—“Ah, very weak yet, 
jufvrouw; very weak, indeed. He must have nourishment. 
You may begin to feed the patient, ahem! not too much, but 
what you do give him let it be strong and of the best.” 

“Black bread we have, mynheer, and porridge,” replied 
Dame Brinker, cheerily; “they have always agreed with 
him well.” 

“Tut! tut!” said the doctor frowning, “nothing of the 
kind. He must have the juice of fresh meat, white bread, 

236 





A New Alarm 


237 


dried and toasted, good Malaga wine, and—ahem! The 
man looks cold—give him more covering, something light 
and warm. Where is the boy?” 

“Hans, mynheer, has gone into Broek to look for work. 
He will be back soon. Will the meester please be seated?” 

Whether the hard polished stool offered by Dame 
Brinker did not look particularly tempting, or whether 
the dame herself frightened him, partly because she was a 
woman, and partly because an anxious, distressed look had 
suddenly appeared in her face, I cannot say. Certain it is 
that our eccentric doctor looked hurriedly about him, mut¬ 
tered something about “extraordinary case,” bowed, and 
disappeared, before Dame Brinker had time to say another 
word. 

Strange that the visit of their good benefactor should 
have left a cloud, yet so it was. Gretel frowned, an anxious 
childish frown, and kneaded the bread-dough violently, 
without looking up. Dame Brinker hurried to her hus¬ 
band’s bedside, leaned over him, and fell into silent but 
passionate weeping. 

In a moment Hans entered. 

“Why, mother,” he whispered in alarm, “what ails thee? 
Is the father worse?” 

She turned her quivering face toward him, making no 
attempt to conceal her distress. 

“Yes. He is starving—perishing. The meester said it.” 

Hans turned pale. 

“What does this mean, mother? We must feed him at 
once. Here, Gretel, give me the porridge.” 

“Nay!” cried his mother, distractedly, yet without rais¬ 
ing her voice, “it may kill him. Our poor fare is too heavy 
for him. Oh, Hans, he will die—the father will die if we 
use him this way. He must have meat, and sweet wine, and 
a dek-bed. Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?” she 



238 


Hans Brinker 


sobbed, wringing her hands. “ There is not a stiver in the 
house.’ ’ 

Gretel pouted; it was the only way she could express sym¬ 
pathy just then; her tears fell one by one into the dough. 

“Did the meester say he must have these things, 
mother?” asked Hans. 

“Yes, he did.” 

“Well, mother, don’t cry, he shall have them; I shall 
bring meat and wine before night. Take the cover from my 
bed. I can sleep in the straw.” 

“Yes, Hans; but it is heavy, scant as it is. The meester 
said he must have something light and warm. He will per¬ 
ish. Our peat is giving out, Hans. The father has wasted 
it sorely, throwing it on when I was not looking, dear man.” 

“Never mind, mother,” whispered Hans, cheerfully. 
“We can cut down the willow tree and burn it, if need be; 
but I’ll bring home something to-night. There must be 
work in Amsterdam, though there’s none in Broek. Never 
fear, mother; the worst trouble of all is past. We can brave 
anything now that the father is himself again.” 

“Aye!” sobbed Dame Brinker, hastily drying her eyes, 
“that is true indeed.” 

“Of course it is. Look at him, mother, how softly he 
sleeps. Do you think God would let him starve, just after 
giving him back to us? Why, mother, I’m sure of getting 
all the father needs, as if my pocket was bursting with gold. 
There, now, don’t fret.” And hurriedly kissing her, Hans 
caught up his skates and slipped from the cottage. 

Poor Hans! Disappointed in his morning’s errand, half 
sickened with this new trouble, he wore a brave look, and 
tried to whistle as he tramped resolutely off with the firm 
intention of mending matters. 

Want had never before pressed as sorely upon the 
Brinker family. Their stock of peat was nearly exhausted, 
and all the flour in the cottage was in Gretel’s dough. They 



A New Alarm 


239 


had scarcely cared to eat during the past few days— 
scarcely realized their condition. Dame Brinker had felt 
so sure that she and the children could earn money before 
the worst came, that she had given herself up to the joy of 
her husband’s recovery. She had not even told Hans that 
the few pieces of silver in the old mitten were quite gone. 

Hans reproached himself, now, that he had not hailed 
the doctor when he saw him enter his coach and drive rap¬ 
idly away in the direction of Amsterdam. 

“Perhaps there is some mistake,” he thought. “The 
meester surely would have known that meat and sweet wine 
were not at our command; and yet the father looks very 
weak—he certainly does. I must get work. If Mynheer 
van Holp were back from Rotterdam I could get plenty to 
do. But Master Peter told me to let him know if he could 
do aught to serve us. I shall go to him at once. Oh, if it 
were but summer!” 

All this time Hans was hastening toward the canal. Soon 
his skates were on, and he was skimming rapidly toward 
the residence of Mynheer van Holp. 

“The father must have meat and wine at once,” he mut¬ 
tered, “but how can I earn the money in time to buy them 
to-day ? There is no other way but to go, as I promised, to 
Master Peter. What would a gift of meat and wine be to 
him? When the father is once fed, I can rush down to 
Amsterdam and earn the morrow’s supply.” 

Then came other thoughts—thoughts that made his heart 
thump heavily and his cheeks burn with a new shame—“It 
is begging, to say the least. Not one of the Brinkers has ever 
been a beggar. Shall I be the first? Shall my poor father 
just coming back into life learn that his family have asked 
for charity—he, always so wise and thrifty? No,” cried 
Hans aloud, “better a thousand times to part with the 
watch.” 



240 


Hans Brinker 


“I can at least borrow money on it, in Amsterdam!” he 
thought, turning around. 4 4 That will be no disgrace. I can 
find work at once, and get it back again. Nay, perhaps I 
ean even speak to the father about it!” 

This last thought almost made the lad dance for joy. 
Why not, indeed, speak to the father? He was a rational 
being now. “He may wake,” thought Hans, “quite bright 
and rested—may tell us the watch is of no consequence, to 
sell it of course! Hoezza!” and Hans almost flew over the 
ice. 

A few moments more and the skates were again swinging 
from his arm. He was running toward the cottage. 

His mother met him at the door. 

“Oh, Hans!” she cried, her face radiant with joy, “the 
young lady has been here with her maid. She brought 
everything—meat, jelly, wine and bread—a whole basket¬ 
ful! Then the meester sent a man from town with more 
wine, and a fine bed and blankets for the father. Oh! he 
will get well now. God bless them!” 

“God bless them!” echoed Hans, and for the first time 
that day, his eyes filled with tears. 




That evening Raff Brinker felt so much better that he 
insisted upon sitting up a while on the rough, high-backed 
chair by the fire. For a few moments there was quite a 
commotion in the little cottage. Hans was all-important on 
the occasion, for his father was a heavy man, and needed 
something firm to lean upon. The dame, though none of 
your fragile ladies, was in such a state of alarm and excite¬ 
ment at the bold step they were taking in lifting him with¬ 
out the meester’s orders, that she came near pulling her hus¬ 
band over, even while she believed herself to be his main 
prop and support. 


241 




















242 


Hans Brinker 


“Steady, vrouw, steady/’ panted Raff; “have I grown 
old and feeble, or is it the fever makes me thus helpless?” 

“Hear the man!” laughed Dame Brinker, “talking like 
any other Christian. Why, you’re only weak from the 
fever, Raff. Here’s the chair, all fixed snug and warm; 
now, sit thee down—hi-di-didy—there we are!” 

With these words, Dame Brinker let her half of the bur¬ 
den settle slowly into the chair. Hans prudently did the 
same. 

Meanwhile Gretel flew about generally, bringing every 
possible thing to her mother to tuck behind the father’s 
back and spread over his knees. Then she twitched the 
carved bench under his feet, and Hans kicked the fire to 
make it brighter. 

The father was “sitting up” at last. What wonder that 
he looked about him like one bewildered. “Little Hans” 
had just been almost carrying him. “The baby” was over 
four feet long, and was demurely brushing up the hearth 
with a bundle of willow wisps. Meitje, the vrouw, winsome 
and fair as ever, had gained at least fifty pounds in what 
seemed to him a few hours. She also had some new lines 
in her face that puzzled him. The only familiar things in 
the room were the pine table that he had made before he was 
married, the Bible upon the shelf, and the cupboard in the 
corner. 

Ah! Raff Brinker, it was only natural that your eyes 
should fill with hot tears even while looking at the joyful 
faces of your loved ones. Ten years dropped from a man’s 
life are no small loss; ten years of manhood, of household 
happiness and care; ten years of honest labor, of conscious 
enjoyment of sunshine and outdoor beauty, ten years of 
grateful life—One day looking forward to all this; the next, 
waking to find them passed, and a blank. What wonder the 
scalding tears dropped one by one upon your cheek! 



The Father’s Return 


243 


Tender little Gretel! The prayer of her life was 
answered through those tears. She loved her father from 
that moment. Hans and his mother glanced silently at each 
other when they saw her spring toward him and throw her 
arms about his neck. 

“Father, dear father,” she whispered, pressing her cheek 
close to his, “don’t cry. We are all here.” 

“God bless thee,” sobbed Raff, kissing her again and 
again. 4 4 1 had forgotten that! ’ ’ 

Soon he looked up again, and spoke in a cheerful voice: 
“I should know her, vrouw,” he said, holding the sweet 
young face between his hands, and gazing at it as though he 
were watching it grow. “I should know her. The same 
blue eyes, and the lips, and, ah! me, the little song she could 
sing almost before she could stand. But that was long 
ago,” he added, with a sigh, still looking at her dreamily, 
“long ago; it’s all gone now.” 

“Not so, indeed,” cried Dame Brinker, eagerly. “Do 
you think I would let her forget it ? Gretel, child, sing the 
old song thou hast known so long!” 

Raff Brinker’s hands fell wearily and his eyes closed, but 
it was something to see the smile playing about his mouth, 
as Gretel’s voice floated about him like an incense. 

It was a simple air; she had never known the words. 

With loving instinct she softened every note, until Raff 
almost fancied that his two-year-old baby was once more 
beside him. 

As soon as the song was finished, Hans mounted a wooden 
stool and began to rummage in the cupboard. 

“Have a care, Hans,” said Dame Brinker, who through 
all her poverty was ever a tidy housewife. “Have a care, 
the wine is there at your right, and the white bread beyond 
it.” 



244 


Hans Brinker 


“Never fear, mother,” answered Hans, reaching far back 
on an upper shelf, “I shall do no mischief.” 

Jumping down, he walked toward his father, and placed 
an oblong block of pine-wood in his hands. One of its ends 
was rounded off, and some deep cuts had been made on the 
top. 

“Do you know what it is, father?” asked Hans. 

Raff Brinker’s face brightened. “Indeed I do, boy; it 
is the boat I was making you yest—alack, not yesterday, 
but years ago.” 

“I have kept it ever since, father; it can be finished when 
your hand grows strong again.” 

“Yes, but not for you, my lad. I must wait for the grand¬ 
children. Why, you are nearly a man. Have you helped 
your mother, boy, through all these years?” 

“Aye, and bravely,” put in Dame Brinker. 

“Let me see,” muttered the father, looking in a puzzled 
way at them all, “how long is it since the night when the 
waters were coming in? ’Tis the last I remember.” 

“We have told thee true, Raff. It was ten years last 
Pinxter-week.” 

“Ten years—and I fell then, you say. Has the fever been 
on me ever since?” 

Dame Brinker scarce knew how to reply. Should she tell 
him all? Tell him that he had been an idiot, almost a luna¬ 
tic ? The doctor had charged her on no account to worry or 
excite his patient. 

Hans and Gretel looked astonished when the answer 
came. 

“Like enough, Raff,” she said, nodding her head, and 
raising her eyebrows, “when a heavy man like thee falls on 
his head, it’s hard to say what will come—but thou’rt well 
now, Raff. Thank the good Lord!” 

The newly-awakened man bowed his head. 



The Father's Return 


245 


“Aye, well enough, mine vrouw,” he said, after a mo¬ 
ment’s silence, “but my brain turns somehow like a spin¬ 
ning-wheel. It will not be right till I get on the dykes again. 
When shall I be at work, think you?” 

“Hear the man!” cried Dame Brinker delighted, yet 
frightened, too, for that matter; “we must get him on the 
bed, Hans. Work, indeed!” 

They tried to raise him from the chair—but he was not 
ready yet. 

“Be off with ye!” he said, with something like his old 
smile (Gretel had never seen it before) ; “does a man want 
to be lifted about like a log? I tell you before three suns I 
shall be on the dykes again. Ah! there’ll be some stout fel¬ 
lows to greet me. Jan Kamphuisen and young Hoogsvliet. 
They have been good friends to thee, Hans, I’ll warrant.” 

Hans looked at his mother. Young Hoogsvliet had been 
dead five years. Jan Kamphuisen was in the jail at 
Amsterdam. 

“Aye, they’d have done their share no doubt,” said Dame 
Brinker, parrying the inquiry, “had we asked them. But 
what with working and studying, Hans has been busy 
enough without seeking comrades.” 

“Working and studying,” echoed Raff, in a musing tone; 
“can the youngsters read and cipher, Meitje?” 

“You should hear them!’’ she answered proudly. 4 ‘They 
can run through a book while I mop the floor. Hans there 
is as happy over a page of big words as a rabbit in a cab¬ 
bage patch—as for ciphering-” 

“Here, lad, help a bit,” interrupted Raff Brinker. “I 
must get me on the bed again.” 




THE THOUSAND GUILDERS 

None seeing the humble supper eaten in the Brinker cot¬ 
tage that night would have dreamed of the dainty fare 
hidden away near by. Hans and Gretel looked rather wist¬ 
fully toward the cupboard as they drank their cupful of 
water and ate their scanty share of black bread; but even 
in thought they did not rob their father. 

“He relished his supper well,” said Dame Brinker nod¬ 
ding sidewise toward the bed, “and fell asleep the next 
moment—Ah, the dear man will be feeble for many a day. 
He wanted sore to sit up again, but while I made show of 
humoring him, and getting ready, he dropped off. Remem¬ 
ber that, my girl, when you have a man of your own (and 
many a day may it be before that comes to pass), remember 
you can never rule by differing; ‘humble wife is husband’s 

boss-’ Tut! tut! never swallow such a mouthful as that 

again, child; why, I could make a meal off of two such 
pieces. What’s in thee, Hans? One would think there were 
cobwebs on the wall.” 

“Oh, no, mother, I was only thinking-” 

“Thinking, about what? Ah, no use asking,” she added 
in a changed tone. “I was thinking of the same a while 

246 




The Thousand Guilders 


247 


ago—well, well—It’s no blame if we did look to hear some¬ 
thing by this time about the thousand guilders; but, not r 
word—no—it’s plain enough he knows naught about 
them.” 

Hans looked up anxiously, dreading lest his mother 
should grow agitated, as usual, when speaking of the lost 
money; but she was silently nibbling her bread and looking 
with a doleful stare toward the window. 

“Thousand guilders,” echoed a faint voice from the bed. 
“Ah, I am sure they have been of good use to you, vrouw, 
through the long years while your man was idle.” 

The poor woman started up. These words quite destroyed 
the hope that of late had been glowing within her. 

“Are you awake, Raff?” she faltered. 

“Yes, Meitje, and I feel much better. Our money was 
well saved, vrouw, I was saying. Did it last through all 
these ten years?” 

“I—I—have not got it, Raff, I-” She was going to 

tell him the whole truth, when Hans lifted his finger warn- 
ingly and whispered: 

“Remember what the meester told us; the father must 
not be worried.” 

“Speak to him, child,” she answered, trembling. 

Hans hurried to the bedside. 

“I am glad you are feeling better,” he said, leaning over 
his father; “another day will see you quite strong again.” 

“Aye, like enough. How long did the money last, Hans? 
I could not hear your mother. What did she say?” 

“I said, Raff,” stammered Dame Brinker in great dis¬ 
tress, “that it was all gone.” 

“Well, well, wife, do not fret at that; one thousand 
guilders is not so veiy much for ten years, and with chil¬ 
dren to bring up; but it has helped to make you all com¬ 
fortable. Have you had much sickness to bear?” 



248 


Hans Brinker 


“N-no,” sobbed Dame Brinker lifting her apron to her 
eyes. 

“Tut—tut, woman, why do you cry?” said Raff, kindly; 
“we will soon fill another pouch, when I am on my feet 
again. Lucky I told you all about it before I fell.” 

“Told me what, man?” 

“Why, that I buried the money. In my dream just now, 
it seemed I had never said aught about it.” 

Dame Brinker started forward. Hans caught her arm. 

“Hist! mother,” he whispered, hastily leading her away, 
“we must be very careful.” Then while she stood with 
clasped hands waiting in breathless anxiety, he once more 
approached the cot. Trembling with eagerness he said: 

“That was a troublesome dream. Do you remember 
when you buried the money, father?” 

“Yes, my boy. It was before daylight on the same day 
I was hurt. Jans Kamphuisen said something, the sundown 
before, that made me distrust his honesty. He was the only 
one living besides mother who knew we had saved a thou¬ 
sand guilders—so I rose up that night and buried the money 
—blockhead that I was ever to suspect an old friend!” 

“I’ll be bound, father,” pursued Hans in a laughing 
voice, motioning to his mother and Gretel to remain quiet 
—“that you’ve forgotten where you buried it.” 

“Ha! ha! not I, indeed—but good-night, my son, I can 
sleep again.” 

Hans would have walked away, but his mother’s gestures 
were not to be disobeyed—so he said gently: 

“Good-night, father. Where did you say you buried the 
money? I was only a little one then.” 

“Close by the willow sapling behind the cottage,” said 
Raff Brinker drowsily. 

“Ah, yes. North side of the tree, wasn’t it, father?” 

“No, the south side. Ah, you know the spot well enough, 
you rogue—like enough you were there when your mother 



The Thousand Guilders 


249 


lifted it. Now, son—easy—shift this pillow—so. Good¬ 
night.” 

“Good-night, father!” said Hans, ready to dance for joy. 

The moon rose very late that night, shining in, full and 
clear, at the little window; but its beams did not disturb 
Raff Brinker. He slept soundly, so did Gretel. As for 
Hans and his mother, they had something else to do. 

After making a few hurried preparations, they stole 
forth with bright expectant faces, bearing a broken spade 
and a i;usty implement that had done many a day’s service 
when Raff was a hale worker on the dykes. 

It was so light out of doors they could see the willow tree 
distinctly. The frozen ground was hard as stone, but Hans 
and his mother were resolute. Their only dread was that 
they might disturb the sleepers in the cottage. 

“This ysbrekker is just the thing, mother,” said Hans, 
striking many a vigorous blow—“but the ground has set so 
firm it’ll be a fair match for it.” 

“Never fear, Hans,” she answered, watching him 
eagerly; “here, let me try a while.” 

They soon succeeded in making an impression; one open¬ 
ing, and the rest was not so difficult. 

Still they worked on, taking turns and whispering cheer¬ 
ily to one another. Now and then Dame Brinker stepped 
noiselessly over the threshold and listened, to be certain 
that her husband slept. 

“What grand news it will be for him,” she said, laugh¬ 
ing, “when he is strong enough to bear it. How I should 
like to put the pouch and the stocking, just as we find them, 
all full of money, near him this blessed night, for the dear 
man to see when he wakens.” 

“We must get them, first, mother,” panted Hans, still 
tugging away at his work. 



250 


Hans Brinker 


“There’s no doubt of that. They can’t slip away from 
us now,” she answered, shivering with cold and excitement, 
as she crouched beside the opening. “Like enough we’ll 
find them stowed in the old earthen pot I lost long ago’.” 

By this time Hans, too, began to tremble, but not with 
cold. He had penetrated a foot deep for quite a space on 
the south side of the tree. At any moment they might come 
upon the treasure. 

Meantime the stars winked and blinked at each other as 
if to say, “Queer country, this Holland! How much we do 
see to be sure!” 

“Strange that the dear father should have put it down 
so woful deep,” said Dame Brinker, in rather a provoked 
tone. “Ah, the ground was soft enough then, I warrant. 
How wise of him to mistrust Jan Kamphuisen, and Jan in 
full credit at the time. Little I thought that handsome fel¬ 
low with his gay ways would ever go to jail! Now, Hans, 
let me take a turn—it’s lighter work, d’ye see*? the deeper 
we go. I’d be loath to kill the tree, Hans—will we harm it, 
think you 9” 

“I cannot say,” he answered, gravely. 

Hour after hour, mother and son worked on. The hole 
grew larger and deeper. Clouds began to gather in the sky, 
throwing elfish shadows as they passed. Not until moon 
and stars faded away and streaks of daylight began to 
appear, did Meitje Brinker and Hans look hopelessly into 
each other’s face. 

They had searched thoroughly, desperately, all round the 
tree; south, north, east, west. The hidden money was not 
there! 






THE HIDDEN MONEY 


WAS NOT THERE! 


251 





































Annie Bouman had a healthy distaste for Janzoon Kolp. 
Janzoon Kolp, in his own rough way, adored Annie. Annie 
declared she could not “to save her life” say one civil word 
to that odious boy. Janzoon believed her to be the sweetest, 
sauciest creature in the world. Annie laughed among her 
playmates at the comical flapping of Janzoon’s tattered and 
dingy jacket; he sighed in solitude over the floating grace 
of her jaunty blue petticoat. She thanked her stars that 
her brothers were not like the Kolps; and he growled at his 
sister because she was not like the Boumans. They seemed 
to exchange natures whenever they met. His presence made 
her harsh and unfeeling; and the very sight of her made 
him gentle as a lamb. Of course they were thrown together 
very often. It is thus that in some mysterious way we are 
convinced of error and cured of prejudice. In this case, 
however, the scheme failed. Annie detested Janzoon more 
and more at each encounter; and Janzoon liked her better 
and better every day. 

“He killed a stork, the wicked old wretch!” she would 
say to herself. 

“She knows I am strong and fearless,” thought Janzoon. 

252 











Glimpses 


253 


“How red and freckled and ugly he is!” was Annie’s 
secret comment when she looked at him. 

“How she stares, and stares!” thought Janzoon. “Well, 
1 am a fine, weather-beaten fellow, anyway. ’’ 

“Janzoon Kolp, you impudent boy, go right away from 
me!” Annie often said. “I don’t want any of your 
company.” 

“Ha! ha!” laughed Janzoon to himself, “girls never say 
what they mean. I’ll skate with her every chance I can 
get.” 

And so it came to pass that the pretty maid would not 
look up that morning when, skating homeward from 
Amsterdam, she became convinced that a great burly boy 
was coming down the canal, toward her. 

“Humph! if I look at him,” thought Annie, “I’ll-” 

“Good-morrow, Annie Bouman,” said a pleasant voice. 

[How a smile brightens a girl’s face!] 

“Good-morrow, Master Hans, I am right glad to meet 
you.” 

[How a smile brightens a boy’s face!] 

“Good-morrow again, Annie. There has been a great 
change at our house since you left.” 

“How so?” she exclaimed, opening her eyes very wide. 

Hans, who had been in a great hurry, and rather moody, 
grew talkative and quite at leisure in Annie’s sunshine. 

Turning about, and skating slowly with her toward 
Broek, he told the good news of his father. Annie was so 
true a friend that he told her even of their present distress, 
of how money was needed, and how everything depended 
upon his obtaining work, and he could find nothing to do in 
the neighborhood. 

All this was not said as a complaint, but just because she 
was looking at him, and really wished to know. He could 
not speak of last night’s bitter disappointment, for that 
secret was not wholly his own. 




254 


Hans Brinker 


“Good-bye, Annie!” he said at last. “The morning is 
going fast, and I must haste to Amsterdam and sell these 
skates. Mother must have money at once. Before night¬ 
fall I shall certainly find a job somewhere.” 

“Sell your new skates, Hans!” cried Annie; “you, the 
best skater around Broek! Why, the race is coming off in 
five days!” 

“I know it,” he answered resolutely. “Good-bye! I 
shall skate home again on the old wooden ones.” 

Such a bright glance! So different from Janzoon’s ugly 
grin—and Hans was off like an arrow. 

“Hans! come back,” she called. 

Her voice changed the arrow into a top. Spinning 
around, he darted, in one long, leaning sweep, toward her. 

“Then you really are going to sell your new skates if you 
can find a customer.” 

“Of course I am,” he replied, looking up with a surprised 
smile. 

“Well, Hans, if you are going to sell your skates,” said 

Annie, somewhat confused, “I mean if you- Well, I 

know somebody who would like to buy them—that’s all.” 

“Not Janzoon Kolp?” asked Hans, flushing. 

‘ 4 Oh, no, ’ ’ she pouted, “ he is not one of my friends. ’ ’ 

“But you know him,” persisted Hans. 

Annie laughed. “Yes, I know him, and it’s all the worse 
for him that I do. Now please, Hans, don’t ever talk any 
more to me about Janzoon. I hate him!” 

“Hate him! yon hate any one, Annie?” 

She shook her head saucily. “ Yes; and I’ll hate you, too, 
if you persist in calling him one of my friends. You boys 
may like him because he caught the greased goose at the 
Kermis last summer, and climbed the pole with his great, 
ugly body tied up in a sack, but I don’t care for such things. 
I’ve disliked him ever since I saw him try to push his little 
sister out of the ^merry-go-round at Amsterdam; and it’s 




Glimpses 


255 


no secret up our way who killed the stork on your mother’s 
roof. But we mustn’t talk about such a bad, wicked fellow. 
Really, Hans, I know somebody who would be glad to buy 
your skates. You won’t get half a price for them in Amster¬ 
dam. Please give them to me. I’ll take you the money this 
very afternoon.” 

If Annie was charming even when she said “hate,” there 
was no withstanding her when she said “please”; at least 
Hans found it to be so. 

“Annie,” he said, taking off the skates, and rubbing them 
carefully with a snarl of twine before handing them to her, 
“I am sorry to be so particular; but if your friend should 
not want them, will you bring them back to me to-day? I 
must buy peat and meal for the mother early to-morrow 
morning.” 

“My friend will want them,” laughed Annie, nodding 
gaily, and skating off at the top of her speed. 

As Hans drew forth the wooden “runners” from his 
capacious pockets and fastened them on as best he could, he 
did not hear Annie murmur, “I wish I had not been so 
rude; poor, brave Hans; what a noble boy he is!” And as 
Annie skated homeward filled with pleasant thoughts, she 
did not hear Hans say, “I grumbled like a bear—but bless 
her! some girls are like angels!” 

Perhaps it was all for the best. One cannot be expected 
to know everything that is going on in the world. 




LOOKING FOR WORK 

Luxuries unfit us for returning to hardships easily 
endured before. The wooden runners squeaked more than 
ever. It was as much as Hans could do to get on with the 
clumsy old things; still he did not regret that he had parted 
with his beautiful skates—but resolutely pushed back the 
boyish trouble that he had not been able to keep them just 
a little longer, at least until after the race. 

“Mother surely will not be angry with me/’ he thought, 
“for selling them without her leave. She has had care 
enough already. It will be full time to speak of it when I 
take home the money.” 

Hans went up and down the streets of Amsterdam that 
day, looking for work. He succeeded in earning a few 
stivers by assisting a man who was driving a train of loaded 
mules into the city, but he could not secure steady employ¬ 
ment anywhere. He would have been glad to obtain a situ¬ 
ation as porter or errand-boy, but though he passed, on his 
way, many a loitering, shuffling urchin, laden with bundles, 
there was no place for him. Some shopkeepers had just 
supplied themselves; others needed a trimmer, more lightly- 

256 




















Looking for Work 


257 


built fellow (they meant better dressed, but did not choose 
to say so) ; others told him to call again in a month or two, 
when the canals would probably be broken up; and many 
shook their heads at him without saying a word. 

At the factories he met with no better luck. It seemed to 
him that in those great buildings, turning out respectively 
such tremendous quantities of woolen, cotton and linen 
stuffs, such world-renowned dyes and paints, such precious 
diamonds cut from the rough, such supplies of meal, of 
bricks, of glass and china—that in at least one of these, a 
strong-armed boy, able and eager to work, could find some¬ 
thing to do. But no—nearly the same answer met him 
everywhere, “no need of more hands just now. If he had 
called before Nicholas’ day they might have given him a 
job, as they were hurried then; but at present they had more 
boys than they needed.” Hans wished they could see, just 
for a moment, his mother and Gretel. He did not know 
how the anxiety of both looked out from his eyes, and how 
more than once, the gruffest denials were uttered with an 
uncomfortable consciousness that the lad ought not to be 
turned away. Certain fathers, when they went home that 
night, spoke more kindly than usual to their own young¬ 
sters, from memory of a frank, young face saddened at 
their words; and before morning one man actually resolved 
that if the Broek boy came in again he would instruct his 
head man Blankert to set him at something. 

But Hans knew nothing of all this. Toward sundown he 
started on his return to Broek, uncertain whether the 
strange, choking sensation in his throat arose from discour¬ 
agement or resolution. There was certainly one more 
chance. Mynheer van Holp might have returned by this 
time. Master Peter it was reported had gone to Haarlem 
the night before, to attend to something connected with the 
great Skating Race. Still Hans would go and try. 

Fortunately, Peter had returned early that morning. He 



258 


Hans Brinker 


was at home when Hans reached there, and was just about 
starting for the Brinker cottage. 

“Ah, Hans!” he cried as the weary boy approached the 
door. “ You are the very one I wished to see. Come in and 
warm yourself.” 

After tugging at his well-worn hat, which always would 
stick to his head when he was embarrassed, Hans knelt 
down—not by way of making a new style of oriental salute 
—nor to worship the goddess of cleanliness who presided 
there—but because his heavy shoes would have filled the 
soul of a Broek housewife with horror. When their owner 
stepped softly into the house, they were left outside to act 
as sentinels until his return. 


Hans left the Van Holp mansion with a lightened heart. 
Peter had brought word from Haarlem that young Brinker 
was to commence working upon the summer-house doors 
immediately. There was a comfortable workshop on the 
place and it was to be at his service until the carving was 
done. 

Peter did not tell Hans that he had skated all the way to 
Haarlem for the purpose of arranging this plan with Myn¬ 
heer van Holp. It was enough for him to see the glad, eager 
look rise on young Brinker’s face. 

“I think I can do it,” said Hans, “though I have never 
learned the trade.” 

“I am sure you can,” responded Peter, heartily. “You 
will find every tool you require in the workshop. It is 
nearly hidden yonder by that wall of twigs. In summer 
when the hedge is green, one cannot see the shop from here 
at all. How is your father to-day?” 

“Better, mynheer—he improves every hour.” 

“It is the most astonishing thing I ever heard of. That 
gruff old doctor is a great fellow after all.” 

“Ah! mynheer,” said Hans, warmly, “he is more than 




Looking for Work 


259 


great. He is good. But for the meester’s kind heart and 
great skill my poor father would yet be in the dark. I think, 
mynheer, ” he added, with kindling eyes, “ surgery is the 
very noblest science in the world!” 

Peter shrugged his shoulders. “Very noble it may be, 
but not quite to my taste. This Dr. Boekman certainly has 
skill. As for his heart—defend me from such hearts as 
his!” 

“Why do you say so, mynheer'?” asked Hans. 

Just then a lady slowly entered from an adjoining apart¬ 
ment. It was Mevrouw van Holp arrayed in the grandest 
of caps, and the longest of satin aprons ruffled with lace. 
She nodded placidly as Hans stepped back from the fire 
bowing as well as he knew how. 

Peter at once drew a high-backed oaken chair toward the 
fire, and the lady seated herself. There was a block of cork 
on each side of the chimney-place. One of these he placed 
under his mother’s feet. 

Hans turned to go. 

“Wait a moment, if you please, young man,” said the 
lady. “I accidentally overheard you and my son speaking, 
I think, of my friend Dr. Boekman. You are right, young 
man. Dr. Boekman has a very kind heart. You perceive, 
Peter, we may be quite mistaken in judging of a person 
solely by their manners, though a courteous deportment is 
by no means to be despised.” 

“I intended no disrespect, mother,” said Peter, “but 
surely one has no right to go growling and snarling through 
the world, as they say he does.” 

“They say. Ah, Peter, ‘they’ means everybody or no¬ 
body. Surgeon Boekman has had a great sorrow. Many 
years ago he lost his only child, under very painful circum¬ 
stances, a fine lad, except that he was a thought too hasty 
and high spirited. Before then Gerard Boekman was one 
of the most agreeable gentlemen I ever knew.” 



260 


Hans Brinker 


So saying, Mevrouw van Holp, looking kindly upon the 
two boys, arose and left the room with the same dignity 
with which she had entered. 

Peter, only half convinced, muttered something about 
“the sin of allowing sorrow to turn all one’s honey into 
gall,” as he conducted his visitor to the narrow side-door. 
Before they parted, he advised Hans to keep himself in 
good skating order, “For,” he added, “now that your father 
is all right, you will be in fine spirits for the race. That 
will be the prettiest skating show ever seen in this part of 
the world. Everybody is talking of it; you are to try for 
the prize, remember.” 

“I shall not be in the race, mynheer,” said Hans, looking 
down. 

“Not be in the race! Why not indeed?” and immedi¬ 
ately Peter’s thoughts swept on a full tide of suspicion 
toward Carl Schummel. 

“Because I cannot, mynheer,” answered Hans, as he bent 
to slip his feet into his big shoes. 

Something in the boy’s manner warned Peter that it 
would be no kindness to press the matter further. He bade 
Hans “good-bye,” and stood thoughtfully watching him as 
he walked away. 

In a minute Peter called out: 

“Hans Brinker!” 

“Yes, mynheer.” 

“I’ll take back all I said about Dr. Boekman.” 

“Yes, mynheer.” 

Both were laughing. But Peter’s smile changed to a look 
of puzzled surprise when he saw Hans kneel down by the 
canal and put on the wooden skates. 

“Very queer,” muttered Peter, shaking his head as he 
turned to go into the house; “why in the world don’t the 
boy wear his new ones?” 




THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 

The sun had gone down quite out of sight when our hero 
—with a happy heart but with something like a sneer on his 
countenance, as he jerked off the wooden “runners”— 
trudged hopefully toward the tiny hut-like building, known 
of old as the “Idiot’s Cottage.” 

Duller eyes than his would have discerned two slight fig¬ 
ures moving near the doorway. 

That gray, well-patched jacket and the dull blue skirt 
covered with an apron of still duller blue, that faded, close- 
fitting cap, and those quick little feet in their great boat¬ 
like shoes, they were Gretel’s of course. He would have 
known them anywhere. 

That bright coquettish red jacket, with its pretty skirt, 
bordered with black, that graceful cap bobbing over the 
gold earrings, that dainty apron, and those snug leather 
shoes that seemed to have grown with the feet—Why, if the 
Pope of Rome had sent them to him by express, Hans could 
have sworn they were Annie’s. 

263 









262 


Hans Brinker 


The two girls were slowly pacing up and down in front 
of the cottage. Their arms were entwined, of course, and 
their heads were nodding and shaking as emphatically as 
if all the affairs of the kingdom were under discussion. 

With a joyous shout, Hans hastened toward them. 

“Huzza, girls, I’ve found work!” 

This brought his mother to the cottage door. 

She, too, had pleasant tidings. The father was still 
improving. He had been sitting up nearly all day, and was 
now sleeping as Dame Brinker declared, “just as quiet as 
a lamb.” 

“It is my turn now, Hans,” said Annie, drawing him 
aside after he had told his mother the good word from Myn¬ 
heer von Holp. “Your skates are sold and here’s the 
money. ’ ’ 

“Seven guilders!” cried Hans, counting the pieces in 
astonishment; “why, that is three times as much as I paid 
for them.” 

4 ‘ I cannot help that, ’ ’ said Annie. 4 4 If the buyer knew no 
better, it is not our fault.” 

Hans looked up quickly. 

“Oh, Annie!” 

“Oh, Hans!” she mimicked, pursing her lips, and trying 
to look desperately wicked and unprincipled. 

“Now, Annie, I know you would never mean that! You 
must return some of this money.” 

“But I’ll not do any such thing,” insisted Annie; 
“they’re sold, and that’s an end of it,” then seeing that he 
looked really pained, she added in a lower tone: 

“Will you believe me, Hans, when I say that there has 
been no mistake—that the person who bought your skates 
insisted upon paying seven guilders for them?” 

“I will,” he answered—and the light from his clear blue 
eyes seemed to settle and sparkle under Annie’s lashes. 

Dame Brinker was delighted at the sight of so much sil- 



The Fairy Godmother 


263 


ver, but when she learned that Hans had parted with his 
treasures to obtain it, she sighed, as she exclaimed: 

“Bless thee, child! That will be a sore loss for thee!” 

“Here, mother,” said the boy, plunging his hands far 
into his pockets, “here is more—we shall be rich if we keep 
on!” 

“Aye, indeed,” she answered, eagerly reaching forth her 
hand. Then, lowering her voice, added, “We would be rich 
but for that Jan Kamphuisen. He was at the willow tree 
years ago, Hans—depend upon it!” 

“Indeed, it seems likely,” sighed Hans. “Well, mother, 
we must give up the money bravely. It is certainly gone; 
the father has told us all he knows. Let us think no more 
about it.” 

“That’s easy saying, Hans. I shall try, but it’s hard, 
and my poor man wanting so many comforts. Bless me! 
How girls fly about. They were here but this instant. 
Where did they run to?” 

“They slipped behind the cottage,” said Hans, “like 
enough to hide from us. Hist! I’ll catch them for you! 
They both can move quicker and softer than yonder rabbit, 
but I’ll give them a good start first.” 

“Why, there is a rabbit, sure enough. Hold, Hans, the 
poor thing must have been in sore need to venture from its 
burrow this bitter weather. I’ll get a few crumbs for it 
within.” 

So saying, the good woman bustled into the cottage. She 
soon came out again, but Hans had forgotten to wait, and 
the rabbit after taking a cool survey of the premises had 
scampered off to unknown quarters. Turning the corner of 
the cottage, Dame Brinker came upon the children. Hans 
and Gretel were standing before Annie who was seated 
carelessly upon a stump. 

“That is as good as a picture!” cried Dame Brinker, 
halting in admiration of the group. “Many a painting 



264 


Hans Brinker 


have I seen at the grand house at Heidelberg not a whit 
prettier. My two are rough chubs, Annie, but you look like 
a fairy.” 

“Do I?” laughed Annie, sparkling with animation. 
“Well, then, Gretel and Hans, imagine I’m your godmother 
just paying you a visit. Now I’ll grant you each a wish. 
What will you have, Master Hans?” 

A shade of earnestness passed over Annie’s face as she 
looked up at him—perhaps it was because* she wished from 
the depths of her heart that for once she could have a fairy’s 
power. 

Something whispered to Hans that, for the moment, she 
was more than mortal. 

“I wish,” said he, solemnly, “I could find something I 
was searching for last night.” 

Gretel laughed merrily. Dame Brinker moaned, “Shame 
on you, Hans!” and passed wearily into the cottage. 

The fairy godmother sprang up and stamped her foot 
three times. 

“Thou shalt have thy wish,” said she, “let them say what 
they will.” Then with playful solemnity, she put her hand 
in her apron pocket and drew forth a large glass bead. 
“Bury this,” said she, giving it to Hans, “where I have 
stamped, and ere moonrise thy wish shall be granted.” 

Gretel laughed more merrily than ever. 

The godmother pretended great displeasure. 

“Naughty child,” said she, scowling terribly. “In pun¬ 
ishment for laughing at a fairy, thy wish shall not be 
granted.” 

“Ha!” cried Gretel in high glee, “better wait till you’re 
asked, godmother. I haven’t made any wish!” 

Annie acted her part well. Never smiling, through all 
their merry laughter, she stalked away, the embodiment of 
offended dignity. 

“Good-night, fairy!” they cried again and again. 



The Fairy Godmother 


265 


“ Good-night, mortals!” she called out at last as she 
sprang over a frozen ditch, and ran quickly homeward. 

44 Oh, isn’t she—just like flowers—so sweet and lovely!” 
cried Gretel, looking after her in great admiration, 4 4 and 
to think how many days she stays in that dark room with 
her grandmother—Why, brother Hans! What is the mat¬ 
ter? What are you going to do?” 

44 Wait and see!” answered Hans as he plunged into the 
cottage and came out again, all in an instant, bearing the 
spade and ysbrekker in his hand— 44 I’m going to bury my 
magic bead!” 

Raff Brinker still slept soundly; his wife took a small 
block of peat from her nearly exhausted store, and put it 
upon the embers. Then opening the door, she called gently: 

44 Come in, children.” 

44 Mother! mother! See here!” shouted Hans. 

4 4 Holy St. Bavon!” exclaimed the dame, springing over 
the door-step. 44 What ails the boy!” 

44 Come quick, mother,” he cried, in great excitement, 
working with all his might, and driving in the ysbrekker 
at each word. 44 Don’t you see? This is the spot—right here 
on the south side of the stump. Why didn’t we think of it 
last night ? The stump is the old willow-tree—the one you 
cut down last spring because it shaded the potatoes. That 
little tree wasn’t here when father—Huzzah!” 

Dame Brinker could not speak. She dropped on her 
knees beside Hans just in time to see him drag forth— the 
old stone pot! 

He thrust in his hand and took out—a piece of brick— 
then another—then another—then, the stocking and the 
pouch, black and mouldy, but filled with the long lost 
treasure! 

Such a time! Such laughing! Such crying! Such 
counting, after they went into the cottage! It was a wonder 



266 


Hans Brinker 


that Raff did not waken. His dreams were pleasant, how¬ 
ever, for he smiled in his sleep. 

Dame Brinker and her children had a fine supper, I can 
assure you. No need of saving the delicacies now. 

“ We ’ll get father some nice fresh things, to-morrow,” 
said the dame, as she brought forth cold meat, wine, bread 
and jelly, and placed them on the clean pine table. “ Sit by, 
children, sit by.” 

That night, Annie fell asleep wondering whether it was a 
knife Hans had lost, and thinking how funny it would be 
if he should find it, after all. 

Hans had scarce closed his eyes, before he found himself 
trudging through a thicket; pots of gold were lying all 
around, and watches, and skates, and glittering beads were 
swinging from every branch. 

Strange to say, each tree, as he approached it, changed 
into a stump, and on the stump sat the prettiest fairy imag¬ 
inable, clad in a scarlet jacket, and blue petticoat. 




THE MYSTERIOUS WATCH 

Something else than the missing guilders was brought 
to light on the day of the fairy godmother’s visit. This was 
the story of the watch that for ten long years had been so 
jealously guarded by Raff’s faithful vrouw. Through 
many an hour of sore temptation she had dreaded almost to 
look upon it, lest she might be tempted to disobey her hus¬ 
band’s request. It had been hard to see her children hungry 
and to know that the watch, if sold, would enable the roses 
to bloom in their cheeks again—“But nay,” she would 
exclaim, “Meitje Brinker is not one to forget her man’s last 
bidding, come what may.” 

“Take good care of this, mine vrouw,” he had said, as 
he handed it to her—that was all. No explanation followed, 
for the words were scarcely spoken, when one of his fellow 
workmen rushed into the cottage, crying, “Come, man! the 
waters are rising! you’re wanted on the dykes.” 

Raff had started at once, and that, as Dame Brinker has 
already told you, was the last she saw of him in his right 
mind. 

On the day when Hans was in Amsterdam looking for 
work, and Gretel, after performing her household labors, 

267 



268 


Hans Brinker 


was wandering about in search of chips, twigs—anything 
that could be burned, Dame Brinker with suppressed 
excitement had laid the watch in her husband’s hand. 

“It wasn’t in reason,” as she afterward said to Hans, “to 
wait any longer, when a word from the father would settle 
all; no woman living but would want to know how he came 
by that watch.” Raff Brinker turned the bright, polished 
thing over and over in his hand—then he examined the bit 
of smoothly ironed black ribbon fastened to it; he seemed 
hardly to recognize it. At last he said, “Ah, I remember 
this! Why, you’ve been rubbing it, vrouw, till it shines 
like a new guilder.” 

“Aye,” said Dame Brinker nodding her head com¬ 
placently. 

Raff looked at it again. 44 Poor boy! ” he murmured, then 
fell into a brown study. 

This was too much for the dame. 44 Poor boy!” she 
echoed, somewhat tartly. 44 What do you think I’m stand¬ 
ing here for, Raff Brinker, and my spinning a-waiting, if 
not to hear more than that ?” 

“I told ye all, long since,” said Raff, positively, as he 
looked up in surprise. 

44 Indeed, and you never did!” retorted the vrouw. 

44 Well, if not—since it’s no affair of ours—we’ll say no 
more about it,” said Raff, shaking his head sadly; 44 like 
enough while I’ve been dead on the earth, all this time, the 
poor boy’s died and been in Heaven. He looked near 
enough to it, poor lad!” 

44 Raff Brinker! If you’re going to treat me this way, 
and I nursing you and bearing with you since I was twenty- 
two years old, it’s a shame! aye, and a disgrace,” cried the 
vrouw growing quite red, and scant of breath. 

Raff’s voice was feeble yet. 44 Treat you what way, 
Meitje?” 


The Mysterious Watch 


269 


‘*What way,” said Dame Brinker, mimicking his voice 
and manner, “what way? why just as every woman in the 
world is treated after she’s stood by a man through the 
worst, like a-” 

“Meitje!” 

Raff was leaning forward, with outstretched arms. His 
eyes were full of tears. 

In an instant Dame Brinker was at his feet, clasping his 
hands in hers. 

“Oh! what have I done! Made my good man cry, and he 
not back with me four days! Look up, Raff! nay, Raff, my 
own boy, I’m sorry I hurt thee. It’s hard not to be told 
about the watch after waiting ten years to know—but I’ll 
ask thee no more, Raff. Here, we’ll put the thing away 
that’s made the first trouble between us, after God just giv¬ 
ing thee back to me.” 

“I was a fool to cry, Meitje,” he said, kissing her, “and 
it’s no more than right ye should know the truth. But it 
seemed like it might be telling the secrets of the dead to 
talk about the matter.” 

“Is the man—the lad—thou wert talking of dead, think 
thee?” asked the vrouw, hiding the watch in her hand, but 
seating herself expectantly on the end of his long foot- 
bench. 

“It’s hard telling,” he answered. 

“Was he so sick, Raff?” 

“No, not sick, I may say; but troubled, ^rouw, very 
troubled.” 

“Had he done any wrong, think ye?” she asked, lowering 
her voice. 

Raff nodded. 

“MurderV’ whispered the wife, not daring to look up. 

“He said it was like to that, indeed.” 

“Oh, Raff, you frighten me—tell me more—you speak so 
strange—and you tremble. I must know all.” 




270 


Hans Brinker 


“If I tremble, mine vrouw, it must be from the fever. 
There is no guilt on my soul, thank God!” 

“Take a sip of this wine, Raff. There, now you are bet¬ 
ter. It was like to a crime you were saying.” 

“Aye, Meitje, like to murder; that he told me himself. 
But I’ll never believe it. A likely lad, fresh and honest 
looking as our own youngster, but with something not so 
bold and straight about him,” 

“Aye, I know,” said the dame, gently, fearing to inter¬ 
rupt the story. 

“He came upon me quite sudden,” continued Raff. “I 
had never seen his face before, the palest, frightenedest 
face that ever was. He caught me by the arm. ‘You look 
like an honest man,’ says he.” 

“Aye, he was right in that,” interrupted the dame, 
emphatically. 

Raff looked somewhat bewildered. 

“Where was I, mine vrouw?” 

“The lad took hold of your arm, Raff,” she said, gazing 
at him anxiously. 

“Aye, so. The words come awkward to me, and every¬ 
thing is half like a dream, ye see.” 

“S-stut! What wonder, poor man,” sighed the dame, 
stroking his hand. “If ye had not head enough for a dozen, 
the wit would never have come to ye again. Well, the lad 
caught ye by the arm, and said ye looked honest (well he 
might!). What then? Was it noon-time?” 

“Nay; before daylight—long before early chimes.” 

“It was the same day you were hurt,” said the dame. “I 
know it seemed you went to your work in the middle of 
the night. You left off, where he caught your arm, Raff.” 

“Yes,” resumed her husband—“and I can see his face 
this minute—so white and wild looking. ‘Take me down 
the river a way,’ says he. I was working then, you’ll 
remember, far down on the line, across from Amsterdam. 



The Mysterious Watch 


271 


I told him I was no boatman. ‘It’s an affair of life and 
death/ says he; ‘take me on a few miles—yonder skiff is not 
locked, but it may be a poor man’s boat and I’d be loath to 
rob him!’ (The words might differ some, vrouw, for it’s 
all like a dream.) Well, I took him down; it might be six 
or eight miles, and then he said he could run the rest of the 
way on shore. I was in haste to get the boat back. Before 
he jumped out, he says, sobbing-like, ‘I can trust you. I’ve 
done a thing—God knows I never intended it—but the man 
is dead. I must fly from Holland.’ ” 

“What was it, did he say, Raff? Had he been shooting 
at a comrade, like they do down at the University at Got¬ 
tingen?” 

“I can’t recall that. Mayhap he told me; but it’s all like 
a dream. I said it wasn’t for me, a good Hollander, to 
cheat the laws of my country by helping him off that way; 
but he kept saying, ‘God knows I am innocent!’ and looked 
at me in the starlight as fair, now, and clear-eyed as our 
little Hans might—and I just pulled away faster.” 

“It must have been Jan Kamphuisen’s boat,” remarked 
Dame Brinker, dryly; “none other would have left his oars 
out that careless.” 

“Aye—it was Jan’s boat sure enough. The man will be 
coming in to see me Sunday, likely, if he’s heard; and young 
Hoogsvliet too. Where was I ? ” 

[It was lucky the dame restrained herself. To have 
spoken at all of Jan after the last night’s cruel disappoint¬ 
ment would have been to have let out more sorrow and sus¬ 
picion than Raff could bear.] 

“Where were you? Why not very far, forsooth—the lad 
hadn’t yet given ye the watch—alack I misgive whether he 
came by it honestly!” 

“Why, vrouw,” exclaimed Raff in an injured tone, “he 
was dressed soft and fine as the prince himself. The watch 
was his own, clear enough.” 



272 


Hans Brinker 


“How came he to give it up?” asked the dame, looking 
uneasily at the fire, for it needed another block of peat. 

“I told ye just now,” he answered with a puzzled air. 

“Tell me again,” said Dame Brinker, wisely warding off 
another digression. 

“Well, just before jumping from the boat, he says, hand¬ 
ing me the watch, ‘I’m flying from my country as I never 
thought I could. I’ll trust you because you look honest. 
Will you take this to my father—not to-day but in a week, 
and tell him his unhappy boy sent it; and tell him if ever 
the time comes that he wants me to come back to him, I’ll 
brave everything and come. Tell him to send a letter to— 
to’—there, the rest is all gone from me. I can’t remember 
where the letter was to go. Poor lad! poor lad!” resumed 
Raff, sorrowfully taking the watch from his vrouw’s lap, 
as he spoke—“and it’s never been sent to his father to this 
day.” 

“I’ll take it, Raff, never fear—the moment Gretel gets 
back. She will be in soon. What was the father’s name, 
did you say? Where were you to find him?” 

“Alack!” answered Raff, speaking very slowly, “It’s 
all slipped me. I can see the lad’s face, and his great eyes, 
just as plain—and I remember his opening the watch and 
snatching something from it and kissing it—but no more. 
All the rest whirls past me; there’s a kind of sound like 
rushing waters comes over me when I try to think.” 

“Aye. That’s plain to see, Raff; but I’ve had the same 
feeling after a fever. You’re tired now—I must get ye 
straight on the bed again. Where is the child, I wonder?” 

Dame Brinker opened the door, and called, “Gretel! 
Gretel!” 

“Stand aside, vrouw,” said Raff, feebly, as he leaned 
forward, and endeavored to look out upon the bare land¬ 
scape; “I’ve half a mind to stand beyond the door just 
once.” 



The Mysterious Watch 


273 


“Nay, nay,” she laughed, “I’ll tell the meester how ye , 
tease, and fidget and bother, to be let out in the air; and, 
if he says it, I’ll bundle ye warm to-morrow, and give ye a 
turn on your feet. But I’m freezing you with this door 
open. I declare if there isn’t Gretel with her apron full, 
skating on the canal, like wild. Why man,” she continued 
almost in a scream, as she slammed the door, “thou’rt walk¬ 
ing to the bed without my touching thee! Thou’It fall!” 

The dame’s “thee” proved her mingled fear and delight, 
even more than the rush which she made toward her hus¬ 
band. Soon he was comfortably settled under the new 
cover, declaring as his vrouw tucked him in snug and warm, 
that it was the last daylight that should see him abed. 

“Aye! I can hope it myself,” laughed Dame Brinker, 
“now you have been frisking about at that rate.” As Raff 
closed his eyes, the dame hastened to revive her fire, or 
rather to dull it, for Dutch peat is like a Dutchman, slow to 
kindle, but very good at a blaze when once started. Then 
putting her neglected spinning-wheel away, she drew forth 
her knitting from some invisible pocket and seated herself 
by the bedside. 

“If you could remember that man’s name, Raff,” she 
began cautiously, “I might take the watch to him, while 
you’re sleeping; Gretel can’t but be in soon.” 

Raff tried to think; but in vain. 

“Could it be Boomphoffen,” suggested the dame. “I’ve 
heard how they’ve had two sons turn out bad—Gerard and 
Lambert?” 

“It might be,” said Raff. “Look if there’s letters on the 
watch; that’ll guide us some.” 

“Bless thee, man,” cried the happy dame, eagerly lifting 
the watch, “why thou’rt sharper than ever! Sure enough. 
Here’s letters! L. J. B. That’s Lambert Boomphoffen you 
may depend; what the J is for I can’t say; but they used to 
be grand kind o’ people, high feathered as fancy fowl. Just 



274 


Hans Brinker 


the kind to give their children all double names, which isn’t 
scripture anyway.” 

“I don’t know about that, vrouw. Seems to me there’s 
long mixed names in the Holy Book, hard enough to make 
out. But you’ve got the right guess at a jump. It was your 
way always,” said Raff, closing his eyes; “take the watch 
to Boompkinks and try.” 

“Not Boompkinks; I know no such name; it’s Boomp- 
hoffen.” 

“Aye, take it there.” 

“Take it there, man! why the whole brood of ’em’s been 
gone to America these four years. But go to sleep, Raff, 
you look pale and out of strength. It’ll all come to you, 
what’s best to do, in the morning. 

“So, Mistress Gretel! Here you are at last!” 

Before Raff awoke that evening, the fairy godmother, as 
we know, had been at the cottage, the guilders were once 
more safely locked in the big chest, and Dame Brinker and 
the children were faring sumptuously on meat and white 
bread and wine. 

So the mother, in the joy of her heart, told them the story 
of the watch as far as she deemed it prudent to divulge it. 
It was no more than fair, she thought, that the poor things 
should know, after keeping the secret so safe, ever since 
they had been old enough to know anything. 




The next day brought a busy day to the Brinkers. 

In the first place the news of the thousand guilders had 
of course to be told to the father. Such tidings as that 
surely could not harm him. Then while Gretel was dili¬ 
gently obeying her mother’s injunction to “clean the place 
fresh as a new brewing,” Hans and the dame sallied forth 
to revel in the purchasing of peat and provisions. 

Hans was careless and contented; the dame was filled 
with delightful anxieties caused by the unreasonable 
demands of ten thousand guilders’ worth of new wants that 
had sprung up like mushrooms in a single night. The happy 
woman talked so largely to Hans on their way to Amster¬ 
dam, and brought back such little bundles after all, that he 
scratched his bewildered head as he leaned against the 
chimneypiece, wondering whether, “ bigger the pouch, 
tighter the string” was in Jacob Cats, and therefore true, 
or whether he had dreamed it when he lay in a fever. 

275 





276 


Hans Brinker 


“What thinking on, Big-eyes?” chirruped his mother, 
half reading his thoughts as she bust]ed about, preparing 
the dinner. “What thinking on? Why, Raff, would ye 
believe it, the child thought to carry half Amsterdam back 
on his head. Bless us! he would have bought as much coffee 
as would have filled this fire-pot; 4 no—no—my lad,’ says I, 
‘no time for leaks when the ship is rich laden’—and then 
how he stared—aye—just as he stares this minute. Hoot 
lad! fly around a mite. Ye’ll grow to the chimney-place 
with your staring and wondering. Now, Raff, here’s your 
chair at the head of the table, where it should be, for there’s 
a man to the house now—I’d say it to the king’s face. Aye, 
that’s the way—lean on Hans; there’s a strong staff for 
you! growing like a weed too, and it seems only yesterday 
since he was toddling. Sit by, my man, sit by.” 

“Can you call to mind, vrouw,” said Raff, settling him¬ 
self cautiously in the big chair, “the wonderful music-box 
that cheered your working in the big house at Heidelberg?” 

“Aye, that I can,” answered the dame, “three turns of a 
brass key, and the witchy thing would send the music fairly 
running up and down one’s back—I remember it well—but, 
Raff,” (growing solemn in an instant) “you would never 
throw our guilders away for a thing like that?” 

“No, no, not I, vrouw—for the good Lord has already 
given me a music-box without pay.” 

All three cast quick, frightened glances at one another 
and at Raff—were his wits on the wing again ? 

“Aye, and a music-box that fifty pouch-full would not 
buy from me,” insisted Raff, “and it’s set going by the 
turn of a mop handle, and it slips and glides around the 
room, everywhere in a flash, carrying the music about till 
you’d swear the birds were back again.” 

“Holy St. Bavon!” screeched the dame, “what’s in the 
man?” 

“Comfort and joy, vrouw, that’s what’s in him! Ask 



A Discovery 


277 


Gretel, ask my little music-box Gretel, if your man has 
lacked comfort and joy this day.” 

“Not he, mother,” laughed Gretel. “He’s been my 
music-box, too. We sang together half the time you were 
gone.” 

“Aye, so,” said the dame, greatly relieved. “Now, Hans, 
you’ll never get through with a piece like that; but never 
mind, chick, thou’st had a long fasting; here, Gretel, take 
another slice of the sausage; it’ll put blood in your cheeks.” 

“Oh! Oh! mother,” laughed Gretel, eagerly holding forth 
her platter, “blood don’t grow in girl’s cheeks—you mean 
roses—isn’t it roses, Hans'?” 

While Hans was hastily swallowing a mammoth mouth¬ 
ful in order to give a suitable reply to this poetic appeal, 
Dame Brinker settled the matter with a quick: 

“Well, roses or blood, it’s all one to me, so the red finds 
its way on your sunny face. It’s enough for mother to get 
pale and weary-looking, without-” 

“Hoot, vrouw,” spoke up Raff hastily, “thou’rt fresher 
and rosier this minute than both our chicks put together.” 

This remark though not bearing very strong testimony to 
the clearness of Raff’s newly awakened intellect, neverthe¬ 
less afforded the dame intense satisfaction; the meal accord¬ 
ingly passed off in the most delightful manner. 

After dinner, the affair of the watch was talked over and 
the mysterious initials duly discussed. 

Hans had just pushed back his stool, intending to start 
at once for Mynheer van Holp’s, and his mother had risen 
to put the watch away in its old hiding place, when they 
heard the sound of wheels upon the frozen ground. 

Some one knocked at the door, opening it at the same 
time. 

“Come in,” stammered Dame Brinker, hastily trying to 
hide the watch in her bosom. “Oh! is it you, mynheer! 
Good day; the father is nearly well, as you see. It’s a poor 



278 


Hans Brinker 


place to greet you in, mynheer, and the dinner not cleared 
away.” 

Dr. Boekman scarcely noticed the dame’s apology. He 
was evidently in haste. 

44 Ahem!” he exclaimed, 44 not needed here, I perceive. 
The patient is mending fast.” 

“Well he may, mynheer,” cried the dame, “for only last 
night we found a thousand guilders that’s been lost to us 
these ten years.” 

Dr. Boekman opened his eyes. 

“Yes, mynheer,” said Raff. “I bid the vrouw tell you, 
though it’s to be held a secret among us, for I see you can 
keep your lips closed as well as any man.” 

The doctor scowled. He never liked personal remarks. 

“Now, mynheer,” continued Raff, “you can take your 
rightful pay. God knows you have earned it, if bringing 
such a poor tool back to the world, and his family, can be 
called a service. Tell the vrouw what’s to pay, mynheer; 
she will hand out the sum right willingly.” 

“Tut! tut!” said the doctor kindly, “say nothing about 
money. I can find plenty of such pay any time, but grati¬ 
tude comes seldom. That boy’s ‘thank you,’ ” he added, 
nodding sidewise toward Hans, “was pay enough for me.” 

“Like enough ye have a boy of your own,” said Dame 
Brinker, quite delighted to see the great man becoming so 
sociable. 

Dr. Boekman’s good-nature vanished at once. He gave 
a growl (at least, it seemed so to Gretel) but made no actual 
reply. 

“Do not think the vrouw meddlesome, mynheer,” said 
Raff; “she has been sore touched of late about a lad whose 
folks have gone away, none know where; and I had a mes¬ 
sage for them from the young gentleman.” 

“The name was Boomphoffen,” said the dame eagerly. 
“Do you know aught of the family, mynheer?” 



A Discovery 


279 


The doctor’s reply was brief and gruff. 

“Yes. A troublesome set. They went long since to 
America.” 

“It might be, Raff,” persisted Dame Brinker, timidly, 
“that the meester knows somebody in that country, though 
I’m told they are mostly savages over there. If he could 
get the watch to the Boomphoffens with the poor lad’s mes¬ 
sage, it would be a most blessed thing.” 

“Tut! vrouw, why pester the good meester and dying 
men and women wanting him everywhere. How do ye know 
ye have the true name ?’ ’ 

“I’m sure of it,” she replied. “They had a son Lambert, 
and there’s an L for Lambert and a B for Boomphoffen, on 
the back; though to be sure there’s an odd J too, but the 
meester can look for himself.” 

So saying, she drew forth the watch. 

“L. J. B.!” cried Dr. Boekman, springing toward her. 

Why attempt to describe the scene that followed! I need 
only say that the lad’s message was delivered to his father 
at last—delivered while the great surgeon was sobbing like 
a little child. 

“Laurens! my Laurens?” he cried, gazing with yearning 
eyes at the watch as he held it tenderly in his palm. “Ah, 
if I had but known sooner! Laurens a homeless wanderer 
—Great Heaven! he may be suffering, dying at this mo¬ 
ment ! Think, man, where is he ? Where did my boy say 
the letter must be sent?” 

Raff shook his head sadly. 

“Think!” implored the doctor. Surely the memory so 
lately awakened through his aid could not refuse to serve 
him in a moment like this. 

“It is all gone, mynheer,” sighed Raff. 

Hans, forgetting distinctions of rank and station, for¬ 
getting everything but that his good friend was in trouble, 
threw his arms round the doctor’s neck. 



280 


Hans Brinker 


“I can find your son, mynheer. If alive, he is somewhere. 
The earth is not so very large. I will devote every day of 
my life to the search. Mother can spare me now. You are 
rich, mynheer; send me where you will.” 

Gretel began to cry. It was right for Hans to go but how 
could they ever live without him? 

Dr. Boekman made no reply, neither did he push Hans 
away. His eyes were fixed anxiously upon Raff Brinker. 
Suddenly he lifted the watch, and with trembling eagerness 
attempted to open it. Its stiffened spring yielded at last; 
the case flew open, disclosing a watch-paper in the back 
bearing a group of blue forget-me-nots. Raff, seeing a 
shade of intense disappointment pass over the doctor’s face, 
hastened to say: 

“ There was something else in it, mynheer, but the young 
gentleman tore it out before he handed it to me. I saw him 
kiss it as he put it away.” 

“It was his mother’s picture,” moaned the doctor; “she 
died when he was ten years old. Thank God! the boy had 
not forgotten. Both dead? It is impossible!” he cried, 
starting up. “My boy is alive. You shall hear his story. 
Laurens acted as my assistant. By mistake he portioned 
out the wrong medicine for one of my patients—a deadly 
poison—but it was never administered, for I discovered the 
error in time. The man died that day. I was detained with 
other bad cases until the next evening. When I reached 
home, my boy was gone. Poor Laurens!” sobbed the doctor, 
breaking down completely, “never to hear from me through 
all these years. His message disregarded. Oh, what must 
he have suffered!” 

Dame Brinker ventured to speak. Anything was better 
than to see the meester cry. 

“It is a mercy to know the young gentleman was inno¬ 
cent. Ah! how he fretted! Telling you, Raff, that his crime 
was like unto murder. It was sending the wrong physic he 



A Discovery 


281 


meant. Crime indeed! why our own G retel might have done 
that! Like enough the poor young gentleman heard that 
the man was dead—that’s why he ran, mynheer. He said, 
you know, Raff, that he never could come back to Holland 
again, unless”—she hesitated—“ah, your honor, ten years 
is a dreary time to be waiting to hear from-” 

“Hist, vrouw,” said Raff sharply. 

“Waiting to hear,” groaned the doctor, “and I, like a 
fool, sitting stubbornly at home, thinking he had abandoned 
me. I never dreamed, Brinker, that the boy had discovered 
the mistake. I believed it was youthful folly—ingratitude 
—love of adventure, that sent him away. My poor, poor 
Laurens!” 

“But you know all, now, mynheer,” whispered Hans. 
“You know he was innocent of wrong, that he loved you and 
his dead mother. We will find him. You shall see him 
again, dear meester.” 

“God bless you!” said Dr. Boekman, seizing the boy’s 
hand, “it may be as you say. I shall try—I shall try—and, 
Brinker, if ever the faintest gleam of recollection concern¬ 
ing him should come to you, you will send me word at 
once?” 

“Indeed we will!” cried all but Hans, whose silent prom¬ 
ise would have satisfied the doctor even had the others not 
spoken. 

“Your boy’s eyes,” he said, turning to Dame Brinker, 
“are strangely like my son’s. The first time I met him it 
seemed that Laurens himself was looking at me.” 

“Aye, mynheer,” replied the mother proudly. “I have 
marked that you were much drawn to the child.” 

For a few moments the meester seemed lost in thought; 
then, arousing himself, he spoke in a new voice: 

“Forgive me, Raff Brinker, for this tumult. Do not feel 
distressed on my account. I leave your house today a hap- 




282 


Hans Brinker 


pier man than I have been for many a long year. Shall I 
take the watch ?” 

“Certain you must, mynheer. It was your son’s wish.” 

“Even so,” responded the doctor—regarding his treasure 
with a queer frown, for his face could not throw off its bad 
habits in an hour—“even so. And, now, I must be gone. 
No medicine is needed by my patient; only peace and cheer¬ 
fulness, and both are here in plenty. Heaven bless you, my 
good friends! I shall ever be grateful to you.” 

“May Heaven bless you, too, mynheer, and may you 
soon find the dear young gentleman,” said Dame Brinker 
earnestly, after hurriedly wiping her eyes upon the corner 
of her apron. 

Raff uttered a hearty “Amen!” and Gretel threw such a 
wistful, eager glance at the doctor, that he patted her head 
as he turned to leave the cottage. 

Hans went out also. 

“When I can serve you, mynheer, I am ready.” 

“Very well, boy,” replied Dr. Boekman with peculiar 
mildness. “Tell them, within, to say nothing of what has 
just passed. Meantime, Hans, when you are with your 
father, watch his mood. You have tact. At any moment 
he may suddenly be able to tell us more.” 

“Trust me for that, mynheer.” 

“Good day, my boy!” cried the doctor, as he sprang into 
his stately coach. 

“ Aha!” thought Hans, as it rolled away, “the meester has 
more life in him than I thought.” 




The Twentieth of December came at last, bringing with 
it the perfection of winter weather. All over the level land¬ 
scape lay the warm sunlight. It tried its power on lake, 
canal and river; but the ice flashed defiance and showed no 
sign of melting. The very weather-cocks stood still to enjoy 
the sight. This gave the windmills a holiday. Nearly all 
the past week they had been whirling briskly; now, being 
rather out of breath, they rocked lazily in the clear, still air. 
Catch a windmill working when the weather-cocks have 
nothing to do! 

There was an end to grinding, crushing and sawing for 
that day. It was a good thing for the millers near Broek. 
Long before noon they concluded to take in their sails, and 
go to the race. Everybody would be there already the 
north side of the frozen Y was bordered with eager spec¬ 
tators; the news of the great skating match had traveled 
far and wide. Men, women, and children in holiday attire 
were flocking toward the spot. Some wore furs, and wintry 

283 










284 


Hans Brinker 


cloaks or shawls; but many, consulting their feelings rather 
than the almanac, were dressed as for an October day. 

The site selected for the race was a faultless plain of ice 
near Amsterdam, on that great arm of the Zuider Zee which 
Dutchmen of course must call—the Eye. The townspeople 
turned out in large numbers. Strangers in the city deemed 
it a fine chance to see what was to be seen. Many a peasant 
from the northward had wisely chosen the Twentieth as the 
day for the next city-trading. It seemed that everybody, 
young and old, who had wheels, skates or feet at command, 
had hastened to the scene. 

There were the gentry in their coaches, dressed like Pa¬ 
risians, fresh from the Boulevards; Amsterdam children 
in charity uniforms; girls from the Roman Catholic Orphan 
House, in sable gowns and white headbands; boys from the 
Burgher Asylum, with their black tights and short-skirted, 
harlequin coats . 1 There were old-fashioned gentlemen in 
cocked hats and velvet knee-breeches; old-fashioned ladies, 
too, in stiff, quilted skirts and bodices of dazzling brocade. 
These were accompanied by servants bearing foot-stoves 
and cloaks. There were the peasant folk arrayed in every 
possible Dutch costume; shy young rustics in brazen 
buckles; simple village maidens concealing their flaxen hair 
under fillets of gold; women whose long, narrow aprons 
were stiff with embroidery; women with short, corkscrew 
curls hanging over their foreheads; women with shaved 
heads and close-fitting caps, and women in striped skirts 
and windmill bonnets. Men in leather, in homespun, in 
velvet and broadcloth; burghers in model European attire, 
and burghers in short jackets, wide trousers and steeple- 
crowned hats. 

(1) This is not said in derision. Both the girls and boys of this institution 
wear garments quartered in red and black, alternately. By making the dress thus 
conspicuous, the children are, in a measure, deterred from wrong-doing while going 
about the city. The Burgher Orphan Asylum affords a comfortable home to several 
hundred boys and girls. Holland is famous for its charitable institutions. 




The Race 


285 


There were beautiful Friesland girls in wooden shoes and 
coarse petticoats, with solid gold crescents encircling their 
heads, finished at each temple with a golden rosette, and 
hung with lace a century old. Some wore necklaces, pen¬ 
dants and earrings of the purest gold. Many were content 
with gilt or even with brass, but it is not an uncommon 
thing for a Friesland woman to have all the family treas¬ 
ure in her head-gear. More than one rustic lass displayed 
the value of two thousand guilders upon her head that day. 

Scattered throughout the crowd were peasants from the 
Island of Marken, with sabots, black stockings, and the 
widest of breeches; also women from Marken with short 
blue petticoats, and black jackets, gaily figured in front. 
They wore red sleeves, white aprons, and a cap like a 
bishop’s mitre over their golden hair. 

The children often were as quaint and odd-looking as 
their elders. In short, one-third of the crowd seemed to 
have stepped bodily from a collection of Dutch paintings. 

Everywhere could be seen tall women, and stumpy men, 
lively-faced girls, and youths whose expression never 
changed from sunrise to sunset. 

There seemed to be at least one specimen from every 
known town in Holland. There were Utrecht water bear¬ 
ers, Gouda cheese makers, Delft pottery-men, Schiedam 
distillers, Amsterdam diamond-cutters, Rotterdam mer¬ 
chants, dried up herring-packers, and two sleepy-eyed 
shepherds from Texel. Every man of them had his pipe 
and tobacco-pouch. Some carried what might be called 
the smoker’s complete outfit—a pipe, tobacco, a pricker 
with which to clean the tube, a silver net for protecting the 
bowl, and a box of the strongest of brimstone matches. 

A true Dutchman, you must remember, is rarely without 
his pipe on any possible occasion. He may for a moment 
neglect to breathe, but when the pipe is forgotten, he must 
be dying indeed. There were no such sad cases here. 



286 


Hans Brinker 


Wreaths of smoke were rising from every possible quarter. 
The more fantastic the smoke wreath, the more placid and 
solemn the smoker. 

Look at those boys and girls on stilts! That is a good 
idea. They can see over the heads of the tallest. It is 
strange to see those little bodies high in the air, carried 
about on mysterious legs. They have such a resolute look 
on their round faces, what wonder that nervous old gentle¬ 
men, with tender feet, wince and tremble while the long- 
legged little monsters stride past them. 

You will read in certain books that the Dutch are a quiet 
people—so they are generally—but listen: did ever you 
hear such a din? All made up of human voices—no, the 
horses are helping somewhat, and the fiddles are squeaking 
pitifully (how it must pain fiddles to be tuned!) but the 
mass of the sound comes from the great vox humana that 
belongs to a crowd. 

That queer little dwarf going about with a heavy basket, 
winding in and out among the people, helps not a little. 
You can hear his shrill cry above all the other sounds, 
“Pypen en tabac! Pypen en tabac!” 

Another, his big brother though evidently some years 
younger, is selling doughnuts and bonbons. He is calling 
on all pretty children far and near to come quickly or the 
cakes will be gone. 

You know quite a number among the spectators. High 
up in yonder pavilion, erected upon the border of the ice, 
are some persons whom you have seen very lately. In the 
centre is Madame van Grleck. It is her birthday, you re¬ 
member ; she has the post of honor. There is Mynheer van 
Gleck whose meerschaum has not really grown fast to his 
lips—it only appears so. There are grandfather and grand¬ 
mother whom you met at the St. Nicholas fete. All the 
children are with them. It is so mild they have brought 
even the baby. The poor little creature is swaddled very 



The Race 


287 


much after the manner of an Egyptian mummy, but it can 
crow with delight, and when the band is playing, open and 
shut its animated mittens in perfect time to the music. 

Grandfather with his pipe and spectacles and fur cap, 
makes quite a picture as he holds baby upon his knee. 
Perched high upon their canopied platforms, the party can 
see all that is going on. No wonder the ladies look com¬ 
placently at the glassy ice; with a stove for a footstool one 
might sit cozily beside the North Pole. 

There is a gentleman with them who somewhat resembles 
St. Nicholas as he appeared to the young Van Glecks on 
the fifth of December. But the saint had a flowing white 
beard; and his face is as smooth as a pippin. His saintship 
was larger around the body, too, and (between ourselves) 
he had a pair of thimbles in his mouth, which this gentle¬ 
man certainly has not. It cannot be Saint Nicholas 
after all. 

Near by, in the next pavilion sit the Van Holps with their 
son and daughter (the Van Gends) from the Hague. Pe¬ 
ter’s sister is not one to forget her promises. She has 
brought bouquets of exquisite hothouse flowers for the win¬ 
ners. 

These pavilions, and there are others beside, have all been 
erected since daylight. That semicircular one, containing 
Mynheer Korbes’ family, is very pretty, and proves that the 
Hollanders are quite skilled at tentmaking, but I like the 
Van Gleck’s best—the centre one—striped red and white, 
and hung with evergreens. 

The one with the blue flags contains the musicians. Those 
pagoda-like affairs, decked with sea-shells and streamers 
of every possible hue, are the judges’ stands, and those col¬ 
umns and flagstaffs upon the ice mark the limit of the race¬ 
course. The two white columns twined with green, con¬ 
nected at the top by that long, floating strip of drapery, 
form the starting-point. Those flagstaffs, half a mile off, 



288 


Hans Brinker 


stand at each end of the boundary line, cut sufficiently deep 
to be distinct to the skaters, though not enough so to trip 
them when they turn to come back to the starting-point. 

The air is so clear it seems scarcely possible that the 
columns and flagstaffs are so far apart. Of course the 
judges’ stands are but little nearer together. 

Half a mile on the ice, when the atmosphere is like this, 
is but a short distance after all, especially when fenced 
with a living chain of spectators. 

The music has commenced. How melody seems to enjoy 
itself in the open air! The fiddles have forgotten their 
agony, and everything is harmonious. Until you look at 
the blue tent it seems that the music springs from the sun¬ 
shine, it is so boundless, so joyous. Only when you see the 
staid-faced musicians you realize the truth. 

Where are the racers? All assembled together near the 
white columns. It is a beautiful sight. Forty boys and 
girls in picturesque attire darting with electric swiftness 
in and out among each other, or sailing in pairs and triplets, 
beckoning, chatting, whispering in the fullness of youthful 
glee. 

A few careful ones are soberly tightening their straps; 
others halting on one leg, with flushed, eager faces suddenly 
cross the suspected skate over their knee, give it an exam¬ 
ining shake, and dart off again. One and all are possessed 
with the spirit of motion. They cannot stand still. Their 
skates are a part of them and every runner seems bewitched. 

Holland is the place for skaters after all. Where else can 
nearly every boy and girl perform feats on the ice that 
would attract a crowd if seen on Central Park? Look at 
Ben! I did not see him before. He is really astonishing 
the natives; no easy thing to do in the Netherlands. Save 
your strength, Ben, you will need it soon. Now other boys 
are trying! Ben is surpassed already. Such jumping, such 
poising, such spinning, such india-rubber exploits gener- 



The Race 


289 


ally! That boy with a red cap is the lion now; his back is 
a watch-spring, his body is cork—no it is iron, or it would 
snap at that! He is a bird, a top, a rabbit, a corkscrew, a 
sprite, a flesh-ball all in an instant. When you think he’s 
erect he is down; and when you think he is down he is up. 
He drops his glove on the ice and turns a somersault as he 
picks it up. Without stopping, he snatches the cap from 
Jacob Poot’s astonished head and claps it back again “hind 
side before.” Lookers-on hurrah and laugh. Foolish boy! 
It is Arctic weather under your feet, but more than temper¬ 
ate overhead. Big drops already are rolling down your 
forehead. Superb skater as you are, you may lose the race. 

A French traveler, standing with a note-book in his hand, 
sees our English friend, Ben, buy a doughnut of the dwarf’s 
brother, and eat it. Thereupon he writes in his note-book, 
that the Dutch take enormous mouthfuls, and universally 
are fond of potatoes boiled in molasses. 

There are some familiar faces near the white columns. 
Lambert, Ludwig, Peter and Carl are all there, cool and in 
good skating order. Hans is not far off. Evidently he is 
going to join in the race, for his skates are on—the very 
pair that he sold for seven guilders! He had soon suspected 
that his fairy godmother was the mysterious “friend” who 
bought them. This settled, he had boldly charged her with 
the deed, and she knowing well that all her little savings 
had been spent in the purchase, had not had the face to deny 
it. Through the fairy godmother, too, he had been rendered 
amply able to buy them back again. Therefore Hans is to 
be in the race. Carl is more indignant than ever about it, 
but as three other peasant boys have entered, Hans is not 
alone. 

Twenty boys and twenty girls. The latter by this time 
are standing in front, braced for the start, for they are to 
have the first “run.” Hilda, Rychie and Katrinka are 
among them—two or three bend hastily to give a last pull 



290 


Hans Brinker 


at their skate-straps. It is pretty to see them stamp, to be 
sure that all is firm. Hilda is speaking pleasantly to a 
graceful little creature in a red jacket and a new brown pet¬ 
ticoat. Why, it is Gretel! What a difference those pretty 
shoes make, and the skirt, and the new cap. Annie Bou- 
man is there too. Even Janzoon Kolp’s sister has been 
admitted—but Janzoon himself has been voted out by the 
directors, because he killed the stork, and only last summer 
was caught in the act of robbing a bird’s nest, a legal offence 
in Holland. 

This Janzoon Kolp, you see, was : - There, I cannot 

tell the story just now. The race is about to commence. 

Twenty girls are formed in line. The music has ceased. 

A man, whom we shall call The Crier, stands between the 
columns and the first judges’ stand. He reads the rules in 
a loud voice: 

“The girls and boys are to race in turn, until one girl 

AND ONE BOY HAS BEEN BEATEN TWICE. THEY ARE TO START 
IN A LINE FROM THE UNITED COLUMNS—SKATE TO THE FLAG¬ 
STAFF LINE, TURN, AND THEN COME BACK TO THE STARTING- 
POINT; THUS MAKING A MILE AT EACH RUN.” 

A flag is waved from the judges’ stand. Madame van 
Gleck rises in her pavilion. She leans forward with a white 
handkerchief in her hand. When she drops it, a bugler is 
to give the signal for them to start. 

The handkerchief is fluttering to the ground. Hark! 

No. Back again. Their line was not true in passing the 
judges’ stand. 

The signal is repeated. 

Off again. No mistake this time. Whew! how fast 
they go! 

The multitude is quiet for an instant, absorbed in eager, 
breathless watching. 

Cheers spring up along the line of spectators. Huzza! 
five girls are ahead. Who comes flying back from the 



The Race 


291 


boundary mark? We cannot tell. Something red, that is 
all. There is a blue spot flitting near it, and a dash of yel¬ 
low nearer still. Spectators at this end of the line strain 
their eyes and wish they had taken their post nearer the 
flagstaff. 

The wave of cheers is coming back again. Now we can 
see! Katrinka is ahead! 

She passes the Van Holp pavilion. The next is Madame 
van Gleck’s. That leaning figure gazing from it is a mag¬ 
net. Hilda shoots past Katrinka, waving her hand to her 
mother as she passes. Two others are close now, whizzing 
on like arrows. What is that flash of red and gray? Hur¬ 
rah, it is Gretel! She, too, waves her hand, but toward no 
gay pavilion. The crowd is cheering, but she hears only 
her father’s voice, “Well done, little Gretel!” Soon Ka¬ 
trinka, with a quick merry laugh, shoots past Hilda. The 
girl in yellow is gaining now. She passes them all, all ex¬ 
cept Gretel. The judges lean forward without seeming to 
lift their eyes from their watches. Cheer after cheer fills 
the air; the very columns seem rocking. Gretel has passed 
them. She has won. 

“Gretel Brinker—one mile!” —shouts the crier. 

The judges nod. They write something upon a tablet 
which each holds in his hand. 

While the girls are resting—some crowding eagerly 
around our frightened little Gretel, some standing aside in 
high disdain—the boys form in a line. 

Mynheer van Gleck drops the handkerchief this time. 
The buglers give a vigorous blast! 

The boys have started. 

Half-way already! Did ever you see the like! 

Three hundred legs flashing by in an instant. But there 
are only twenty boys. No matter, there were hundreds of 
legs I am sure! Where are they now? There is such a 
noise one gets bewildered. What are the people laughing at? 



292 


Hans Brinker 


Oh, at that fat boy in the rear. See him go! See him! He’ll 
be down in an instant: no he won’t. I wonder if he knows 
he is all alone; the other boys are nearly at the boundary 
line. Yes, he knows it. He stops! He wipes his hot face. 
He takes off his cap and looks about him. Better to give 
up with a good grace. He has made a hundred friends by 
that hearty, astonished laugh. Good Jacob Poot I 

The fine fellow is already among the spectators gazing 
as eagerly as the rest. 

A cloud of feathery ice flies from the heels of the skaters 
as they ‘‘bring to” and turn at the flagstaffs. 

Something black is coming now, one of the boys—it is all 
we know. He has touched the vox Jnmiana stop of the 
crowd; it fairly roars. Now they come nearer—we can see 
the red cap. There’s Ben—there’s Peter—there’s Hans! 

Hans is ahead! Young Madame van Gend almost crushes 
the flowers in her hand; she had been quite sure that Peter 
would be first. Carl Schummel is next, then Ben, and the 
youth with the red cap. The others are pressing close. A 
tall figure darts from among them. He passes the red cap, 
he passes Ben, then Carl. Now it is an even race between 
him and Hans. Madam van Gend catches her breath. 

It is Peter! He is ahead! Hans shoots past him. Hilda’s 
eyes fill with tears. Peter must beat. Annie’s eyes flash 
proudly. Gretel gazes with clasped hands—four strokes 
more will take her brother to the columns. 

He is there! Yes, but so was young Schummel just a 
second before. At the last instant, Carl, gathering his 
powers, had whizzed between them and passed the goal. 

“Carl Schummel! one mile!” shouts the crier. 

Soon Madame van Gleck rises again. The falling hand¬ 
kerchief starts the bugle; and the bugle, using its voice as a 
bowstring, shoots off twenty girls like so many arrows. 

It is a beautiful sight, but one has not long to look; before 
we can fairly distinguish them they are far in the distance. 



The Race 


293 


This time they are close upon one another; it is hard to say 
as they come speeding back from the flagstaff which will 
reach the columns first. There are new faces among the 
foremost—eager, glowing facs, unnoticed before. Katrinka 
is there, and Hilda, but Gretel and Rychie are in the rear. 
Gretel is wavering, but when Rychie passes her, she starts 
forward afresh. Now they are nearly beside Katrinka. 
Hilda is still in advance; she is almost “home.” She has 
not faltered since that bugle note sent her flying; like an 
arrow still she is speeding toward the goal. Cheer after 
cheer rises in the air. Peter is silent but his eyes shine like 
stars. ‘ 4 Huzza! Huzza! ’ ’ 

The crier’s voice is heard again. 

“Hilda van Gleck, one mile!” 

A loud murmur of approval runs through the crowd, 
catching the music in its course, till all seems one sound, 
with a glad rhythmic throbbing in its depths. When the 
flag waves all is still. 

Once more the bugle blows a terrific blast. It sends off 
the boys like chaff before the wind—dark chaff I admit, 
and in big pieces. 

It is whisked around at the flagstaff, driven faster yet by 
the cheers and shouts along the line. We begin to see what 
is coming. There are three boys in advance this time, and 
all abreast. Hans, Peter and Lambert. Carl soon breaks 
the ranks, rushing through with a whiff! Fly, Hans, fly, 
Peter, don’t let Carl beat again. Carl the bitter, Carl the 
insolent. Van Mounen is flagging, but you are strong as 
ever. Hans and Peter, Peter and Hans; which is foremost ? 
We love them both. We scarcely care which is the fleeter. 

Hilda, Annie and Gretel seated upon the long crimson 
bench, can remain quiet no longer. They spring to their 
feet—so different, and yet one in eagerness. Hilda in¬ 
stantly reseats herself; none shall know how interested she 
is, none shall know how anxious, how filled with one hope. 



294 


Hans Brinker 


Shut your eyes then, Hilda—hide your face rippling with 
joy. Peter has beaten. 

“Peter van Holp, one mile!” calls the crier. 

The same buzz of excitement as before, while the judges 
take notes, the same throbbing of music through the din— 
but something is different. A little crowd presses close 
about some object, near the column. Carl has fallen. He 
is not hurt, though somewhat stunned. If he were less 
sullen he would find more sympathy in these warm young 
hearts. As it is they forget him as soon as he is fairly on 
his feet again. 

The girls are to skate their third mile. 

How resolute the little maidens look as they stand in a 
line! Some are solemn with a sense of responsibility, some 
wear a smile half bashful, half provoked, but one air of 
determination pervades them all. 

This third mile may decide the race. Still if neither 
Gretel nor Hilda win, there is yet a chance among the rest 
for the Silver Skates. 

Each girl feels sure that this time she will accomplish 
the distance in one-half the time. How they stamp to try 
their runners, how nervously they examine each strap— 
how erect they stand at last, every eye upon Madame van 
Gleck! 

The bugle thrills through them again. With quivering 
eagerness they spring forward, bending, but in perfect bal¬ 
ance. Each flashing stroke seems longer than the last. 

Now they are skimming off in the distance. 

Again the eager straining of eyes—again the shouts and 
cheering, again the thrill of excitement as, after a few 
moments, four or five, in advance of the rest, come speed¬ 
ing back, nearer, nearer to the white columns. 

Who is first? Not Rychie, Katrinka, Annie, nor Hilda, 
nor the girl in yellow—but Gretel—Gretel, the fleetest 
sprite of a girl that ever skated. She was but playing in 



The Race 


295 


the earlier race, now she is in earnest, or rather something 
within her has determined to win. The lithe little form 
makes no effort; but it cannot stop—not until the goal is 
passed! 

In vain the crier lifts his voice—he cannot be heard. He 
has no news to tell—it is already ringing through the crowd. 
Gretel has won the Silver Skates! 

Like a bird she has flown over the ice, like a bird she looks 
about her in a timid, startled way. She longs to dart to the 
sheltered nook where her father and mother stand. But 
Hans is beside her—the girls are crowding round. Hilda’s 
kind, joyous voice breathes in her ear. From that hour, 
none will despise her. Goose-girl or not, Gretel stands 
acknowledged Queen of the Skaters! 

With natural pride Hans turns to see if Peter van Holp 
is witnessing his sister’s triumph. Peter is not looking 
toward them at all. He is kneeling, bending his troubled 
face low, and working hastily at his skatestrap. Hans is 
beside him at once. 

“Aire you in trouble, mynheer?” 

“Ah, Hans; that you? Yes, my fun is over. I tried to 
tighten my strap—to make a new hole—and this bothera¬ 
tion of a knife has cut it nearly in two.” 

“Mynheer,” said Hans, at the same time pulling off a 
skate—“you must use my strap!” 

“Not I, indeed, Hans Brinker,” said Peter, looking up, 
“though I thank you warmly. Go to your post, my friend, 
the bugle will sound in a minute.” 

“Mynheer,” pleaded Hans in a husky voice, “you have 
called me your friend. Take this strap—quick! There is 
not an instant to lose. I shall not skate this time—indeed 
I am out of practice. Mynheer, you must take it”—and 
Hans blind and deaf to any remonstrance, slipped his strap 
into Peter’s skate and implored him to put it on. 



296 


Hans Brinker 


“Come Peter!” cried Lambert, from the line, “we are 
waiting for you.” 

“For madame’s sake,” pleaded Hans, “be quick. She is 
motioning to you to join the racers. There the skate is 
almost on; quick, mynheer, fasten it. I could not possibly 
win. The race lies between Master Schummel and your¬ 
self.” 

“You are a noble fellow, Hans I” cried Peter yielding at 
last. He sprang to his post just as the white handkerchief 
fell to the ground. The bugle sends forth its blast, loud, 
clear and ringing. 

Off go the boys! 

“Mine Gott,” cries a tough old fellow from Delft. “They 
beat everything, these Amsterdam youngsters. See them!” 

See them, indeed. They are winged Mercuries, every one 
of them. What mad errand are they on! Ah, I know; they 
are hunting Peter van Holp. He is some fleet-footed run¬ 
away from Olympus. Mercury and his troop of winged 
cousins are in full chase. They will catch him! Now Carl 
is the runaway—the pursuit grows furious—Ben is fore¬ 
most! 

The chase turns in a cloud of mist. It is coming this way. 
Who is hunted now? Mercury himself. It is Peter, Peter 
van Holp; fly, Peter—Hans is watching you. He is send¬ 
ing all his fleetness, all his strength into your feet. Your 
mother and sister are pale with eagerness. Hilda is trem¬ 
bling and dare not look up. Fly, Peter! the crowd has not 
gone deranged, it is only cheering. The pursuers are close 
upon you! Touch the white column! It beckons—it is reel¬ 
ing before you—it- 

Huzza! Huzza! Peter has won the Silver Skates! 

“Peter van Holp!” shouted the crier. But who heard 
him? “Peter van Holp!” shouted a hundred voices, for he 
W2s the favorite boy of the place. Huzza! Huzza! 

Now the music was resolved to be heard. It struck up a 



The Race 


297 


lively air, then a tremendous march. The spectators think¬ 
ing something new was about to happen, deigned to listen 
and to look. 

The racers formed in single file. Peter, being tallest, 
stood first. Gretel, the smallest of all, took her place at the 
end. Hans, who had borrowed a strap from the cake-boy 
was near the head. 

Three gaily twined arches were placed at intervals upon 
the river facing the Van Gleck pavilion. 

Skating slowly, and in perfect time to the music, the 
boys and girls moved forward, led on by Peter. 

It was beautiful to see the bright procession glide along 
like a living creature. It curved and doubled, and drew its 
gracful length in and out among the arches—whichever way 
Peter, the head, went, the body was sure to follow. Some¬ 
times it steered direct for the centre arch, then, as if seized 
with a new impulse, turned away and curled itself about the 
first one; then unwound slowly and bending low, with quick, 
snake-like curvings, crossed the river, passing at length 
through the furthest arch. 

When the music was slow, the procession seemed to crawl 
like a thing afraid; it grew livelier, and the creature darted 
forward with a spring, gliding rapidly among the arches, 
in and out, curling, twisting, turning, never losing form 
until, at the shrill call of the bugle rising above the music, 
it suddenly resolved itself into boys and girls standing in 
double semicircle before Madame van Gleck’s pavilion. 

Peter and Gretel stand in the centre in advance of the 
others. Madame van Gleck rises majestically. Gretel 
trembles, but feels that she must look at the beautiful lady. 
She cannot hear what is said, there is such a buzzing all 
around her. She is thinking that she ought to try and make 
a curtsey, such as her mother makes to the meester, when 
suddenly something so dazzling is placed in her hand that 
she gives a cry of joy. 



298 


Hans Brinker 


Then she ventures to look about her. Peter, too, has 
something in his hands—“Oh! oh! how splendid!” she cries, 
and “oh! how splendid!” is echoed as far as people can see. 

Meantime the silver skates flash in the sunshine, throw¬ 
ing dashes of light upon those two happy faces. 

Mevrouw van Gend sends a little messenger with her 
bouquets. One for Hilda, one for Carl, and others for 
Peter and Gretel. 

At sight of the flowers the Queen of the Skaters becomes 
uncontrollable. With a bright stare of gratitude she gath¬ 
ers skates and bouquet in her apron—hugs them to her 
bosom, and darts off to search for her father and mother 
in the scattering crowd. 




SHE GATHERS SKATES AND FLOWERS IN HER APRON 


299 

































JOY IN THE COTTAGE 

Perhaps you were surprised to learn that Raff and his 
vrouw were at the skating-race; you would have been more 
so had you been with them on the evening of that merry 
20th of December. To see the Brinker cottage standing 
sulkily alone on the frozen marsh, with its bulgy, rheu¬ 
matic looking walls, and its slouched hat of a roof pulled 
far over its eyes, one would never suspect that a lively 
scene was passing within. Without, nothing was left of the 
day but a low line of blaze at the horizon. A few venture¬ 
some clouds had already taken fire, and others, with their 
edges burning, were lost in the gathering smoke. 

A stray gleam of sunshine slipping down from the willow 
stump crept stealthily under the cottage. It seemed to feel 
that the inmates would give it welcome if it could only get 
near them. The room under which it hid was as clean as 
clean could be. The very cracks in the rafters were pol¬ 
ished. Delicious odors filled the air. A huge peat fire upon 
the hearth sent flashes of harmless lightning at the sombre 
walls. It played in turn upon the great leathern Bible, 
upon Gretel’s closet-bed, the household things on their pegs, 
and the beautiful Silver Skates and the flowers upon the 
table. Dame Brinker’s honest face shone and twinkled in 

300 








Joy in the Cottage 


301 


the changing light. Gretel and Hans, with arms entwined, 
were leaning against the fireplace, laughing merrily, and 
Raff Brinker was dancing! 

I do not mean that he was pirouetting or cutting a pigeon¬ 
wing, either of which would have been entirely too undig¬ 
nified for the father of a family; I simply affirm that while 
they were chatting pleasantly together Raff suddenly 
sprang from his seat, snapped his fingers and performed 
two or three flourishes very much like the climax of a High¬ 
land Fling. Next he caught his vrouw in his arms and 
fairly lifted her from the ground in his delight. 

“Huzza!” he cried, “I have it! I have it! It’s Thomas 
Higgs. That’s the name! It came upon me like a flash; 
write it down, lad, write it down!” 

Some one knocked at the door. 

“It’s the meester,” cried the delighted dame. “Goede 
Gunst! how things come to pass!” 

Mother and children came in merry collision as they 
rushed to open the door. 

It was not the doctor, after all, but three boys, Peter van 
Holp, Lambert and Ben. 

“Good-evening, young gentlemen,” said Dame Brinker, 
so happy and proud that she would scarce have been sur¬ 
prised at a visit from the King himself. 

“ Good-evening, jufvrouw,” said the trio, making mag¬ 
nificent bows. 

“Dear me!” thought Dame Brinker as she bobbed up 
and down like a churn dasher, “it’s lucky I learned to 
curtsey at Heidelberg!” 

Raff was content to return the boys’ salutations with a 
respectful nod. 

“Pray be seated, young masters,” said the dame, as 
Gretel bashfully thrust a stool toward them. “There’s a 
lack of chairs as you see, but this one by the fire is at your 
service, and if you don’t mind the hardness, that oak-chest 



302 


Hans Brinker 


is as good a seat as the best. That’s right, Hans, pull it 
out.” 

By the time the boys were seated to the dame’s satisfac¬ 
tion, Peter, acting as spokesman, had explained that they 
were going to attend a lecture at Amsterdam, and had 
stopped on the way to return Hans’ strap. 

“Oh, mynheer,” cried Hans earnestly, “it is too much 
trouble. I am very sorry.” 

“No trouble at all, Hans. I could have waited for you 
to come to your work to-morrow, had I not wished to call. 
And, Hans, talking of your work, my father is much 
pleased with it; a carver by trade could not have done it 
better. He would like to have the south arbor ornamented 
also, but I told him you were going to school again.” 

“Aye!” put in Raff Brinker, emphatically, “Hans must 
go to school at once—and Gretel as well—that is true.” 

“I am glad to hear you say so,” responded Peter, turning 
toward the father, “and very glad to know that you are 
again a well man.” 

“Yes, young master, a well man, and able to work as 
steady as ever—thank God!” 

[Here Hans hastily wrote something on the edge of a 
time-worn almanac that hung by the chimney-place.] “Aye, 
that’s right, lad, set it down. Figgs! Wiggs! Alack! 
Alack!” added Raff in great dismay, “it’s gone again!” 

“All right, father,” said Hans, “the name’s down now 
in black and white. Here, look at it, father; mayhap the 
rest will come to you. If we had the place as well, it would 
be complete;” then turning to Peter, he said in a low tone, 
“I have an important errand in town, mynheer, and if-” 

“Wist!” exclaimed the dame lifting her hands, “not to 
Amsterdam to-night, and you’ve owned your legs were ach¬ 
ing under you. Nay, nay—it’ll be soon enough to go at 
early daylight.” 




Joy in the Cottage 


303 


“Daylight indeed!” echoed Raff, “that would never do. 
Nay, Meitje, he must go this hour.” 

The vrouw looked for an instant as if Raff’s recovery 
was becoming rather a doubtful benefit; her word was no 
longer sole law in the house. Fortunately, the proverb, 
“Humble wife is husband’s boss,” had taken deep root in 
her mind; even as the dame pondered, it bloomed. 

“Very well, Raff,” she said smilingly, “it is thy boy as 
well as mine. Ah! I’ve a troublesome house, young mas¬ 
ters.” 

Just then Peter drew a long strap from his pocket. 

Handing it to Hans he said in an undertone, “I need not 
thank you for lending me this, Hans Brinker. Such boys 
as you do not ask for thanks—but I must say you did me 
a great kindness, and I am proud to acknowledge it. I did 
not know,” he added, laughingly, “until fairly in the race, 
how anxious I was to win.” 

Hans was glad to join in Peter’s laugh—it covered his 
embarrassment and gave his face a chance to cool off a little. 
Honest, generous boys like Hans have such a stupid way of 
blushing when you least expect it. 

“It was nothing, mynheer,” said the dame, hastening to 
her son’s relief; “the lad’s whole soul was in having you 
win the race, I know it was!” 

This helped matters beautifully. 

“Ah, mynheer,” Hans hurried to say, “from the first 
start I felt stiff and strange on my feet; I was well out 
of it so long as I had no chance of winning.” 

Peter looked rather distressed. 

“We may hold different opinions there. That part of the 
business troubles me. It is too late to mend it now, but it 
would be really a kindness to me if-” 

The rest of Peter’s speech was uttered so confidentially 
that I cannot record it. Enough to say, Hans soon started 
back in dismay, and Peter, looking very much ashamed, 



304 


Hans Brinker 


stammered out something to the effect that he would keep 
them, since he won the race, but it was “all wrong.’’ 

Here Van Mounen coughed, as if to remind Peter that 
lecture-hour was approaching fast. At the same moment 
Ben laid something upon the table. 

“Ah,” exclaimed Peter, “I forgot my other errand. 
Your sister ran off so quickly to-day, that Madame van 
Gleck had no opportunity to give her the case for her 
skates.” 

“S-s-t!” said Dame Brinker, shaking her head reproach¬ 
fully at Gretel, “she was a very rude girl I’m sure.” [Se¬ 
cretly, she was thinking that very few women had such a 
line little daughter.] 

“No, indeed,” laughed Peter, “she did exactly the right 
thing—ran home with her richly won treasures—who would 
not? Don’t let us detain you, Hans,” he continued turning 
around as he spoke; but Hans, who was eagerly watching 
the father, seemed to have forgotten their presence. 

Meantime, Raff, lost in thought was repeating under his 
breath, “Thomas Higgs—Thomas Higgs, aye, that’s the 
name. Alack! if I could but tell the place as well.” 

The skate-case was elegantly made of crimson morocco, 
ornamented with silver. If a fairy had breathed upon its 
tiny key, or Jack Frost himself designed its delicate tracery, 
they could not have been more daintily beautiful. For the 
Fleetest was written upon the cover in sparkling letters. 
It was lined with velvet, and in one corner was stamped the 
name and address of the maker. 

Gretel thanked Peter in her own simple way; then, 
being quite delighted and confused, and not knowing what 
else to do, lifted the case, carefully examining it in every 
part. “It’s made by Mynheer Birmingham,” she said after 
a while, still blushing and holding it before her eyes. 

“Birmingham!” replied Lambert van Mounen, “that’s 
the name of a place in England. Let me see it. 



Joy in the Cottage 


305 


“Ha! ha;” he laughed, holding the open case toward the 
firelight, “no wonder you thought so; but it’s a slight mis¬ 
take. The case was made at Birmingham, but the mak er’s 
name is in smaller letters. Humph! they’re so small, I can’t 
read them.” 

“Let me try,” said Peter, leaning over his shoulder. 
“Why, man, it’s perfectly distinct. IPs T—H—it’s T-” 

“Well!” exclaimed Lambert, triumphantly, “if you can 
read it so easily, let’s hear it, T—H, what?” 

“T. H—T. H. Oh! why, Thomas Higgs, to be sure,” re¬ 
plied Peter, pleased to be able to decipher it at last. Then, 
feeling they had been behaving rather unceremoniously, he 
turned toward Hans— 

Peter turned pale! What was the matter with the peo¬ 
ple ? Raff and Hans had started up, and were staring at 
him, in glad amazement. Gretel looked wild. Dame 
Drinker, with an unlighted candle in her hand, was rushing 
about the room, crying, “Hans! Hans! where’s your hat? 
Oh, the meester! oh, the meester! ’ ’ 

41 Birmingham! Higgs! ’ ’ exclaimed Hans. 4 4 Did you say 
Higgs ? We ’ve found him. I must be off. ’ ’ 

44 You see, young masters,” panted the dame, at the same 
time snatching Hans’ hat from the bed, 44 you see—we know 
him—he’s our—no, he isn’t—I mean—oh, Hans, you must 
go to Amsterdam this minute!” 

44 Good-night, mynheers,” panted Hans, radiant with 
sudden joy, 4 4 good-night—you will excuse me, I must go. 
Birmingham—Higgs—Higgs—Birmingham,” and seizing 
his hat from his mother, and his skates from Gretel, he 
rushed from the cottage. 

What could the boys think, but that the entire Brinker 
family had suddenly gone crazy! 

They bade an embarrassed 44 good-evening,” and turned 
to go. But Raff stopped them. 

44 This Thomas Higgs, young masters, is a—a person.” 



306 


Hans Brinker 


“Ah!” exclaimed Peter, quite sure that Raff was the 
most crazy of all. 

“Yes—a person—a—ahem!—a friend. We thought him 
dead. I hope it is the same man. In England, did you 
say?” 

“Yes, Birmingham,” answered Peter; “it must be Bir¬ 
mingham in England.” 

“I know the man,” said Ben, addressing Lambert. “His 
factory is not four miles from our place—a queer fellow— 
still as an oyster—don’t seem at all like an Englishman. 
I’ve often seen him—a solemn-looking chap, with magnifi¬ 
cent eyes. He made a beautiful writing-case once for me to 
give Jenny on her birthday—makes pocketbooks, telescope- 
cases, and all kinds of leather work.” 

As this was said in English, Van Mounen of course trans¬ 
lated it for the benefit of all concerned, noticing meanwhile 
that neither Raff nor his vrouw looked very miserable 
though Raff was trembling, and the dame’s eyes were swim¬ 
ming with tears. 

You may believe the doctor heard every word of the 
story, when later in the evening he came driving back with 
Hans. “The three young gentlemen had been gone some 
time,” Dame Brinker said, “but like enough, by hurrying, 
it would be easy to find them coming out from the lecture, 
wherever that was.” 

“True,” said Raff, nodding his head, “the vrouw always 
hits upon the right thing. It would be well to see the young 
English gentleman, mynheer, before he forgets all about 
Thomas Higgs—it’s a slippery name, d’ye see?—one can’t 
hold it safe a minute. It come upon me sudden and strong 
as a pile-driver, and my boy writ it down. Aye, mynheer, 
I’d haste to talk with the English lad; he’s seen your son 
many a time—only to think on’t!” 

Dame Brinker took up the thread of the discourse. 



Joy in the Cottage 


307 


“ You’ll pick out the lad quick enough, mynheer, because 
he’s in company with Master Peter van Holp; and his hair 
curls all up over his forehead like foreign folk’s, and, if 
you hear him speak, he talks kind of big and fast, only it’s 
English; but that wouldn’t be any hindrance to your 
honor.” 

The doctor had already lifted his hat to go. With a 
beaming face, he muttered something about its being just 
like the young scamp to give himself a rascally English 
name; called Hans “my son”—thereby making that young 
gentleman happy as a lord—and left the cottage with very 
little ceremony, considering what a great meester he was. 

The grumbling coachman comforted himself by speaking 
his mind, as he drove back to Amsterdam. Since the doctor 
was safely stowed away in the coach, and could not hear a 
word, it was a fine time to say terrible things of folks who 
hadn’t no manner of feeling for nobody, and who were 
always wanting the horses a dozen times of a night. 




MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF THOMAS HIGGS 

Higgs’ factory was a mine of delight for the gossips of 
Birmingham. It was a small building, but quite large 
enough to hold a mystery. Who the proprietor was, or 
where he came from, none could tell. He looked like a gen¬ 
tleman—that was certain—though everybody knew he had 
risen from an apprenticeship; and he could handle his pen 
like a writing-master. 

Years ago he had suddenly appeared in the place a lad 
of eighteen—learned his trade faithfully, and risen in the 
confidence of his employer—been taken in as a partner soon 
after his time was up—and, finally, when old Willett died, 
had assumed the business on his own hands. This was all 
that was known of his affairs. 

It was a common remark among some of the good people 
that he never had a word to say to a Christian soul; while 
others declared that though he spoke beautiful, when he 

308 









Mysterious Disappearance of Thomas Higgs 


309 


chose to, there was something wrong in his accent. A tidy 
man, too, they called him, all but for having that scandalous 
green pond alongside of his factory, which wasn’t deep 
enough for an eel, and was “just a fever-nest, as sure as 
you live.” 

His nationality was a great puzzle. The English name 
spoke plain enough for one side of his house, but of what 
manner of nation was his mother ? If she’d been an Ameri¬ 
can, he’d certain have had high cheek-bones and reddish 
skin; if a German, he would have known the language, and 
Squire Smith declared he didn’t; if French (and his having 
that frog-pond made it seems likely) it would come out in 
his speech. No—there was nothing he could be but Dutch. 
And strangest of all, though the man always pricked up his 
ears when you talked of Holland, he didn’t seem to know 
the first thing about the country when you put him to the 
point. 

Anyhow, as no letters ever came to him from his mother’s 
family in Holland, and as nobody living had ever seen old 
Higgs, the family couldn’t be anything much. Probably 
Thomas Higgs himself was no better than he should be, 
for all he pretended to carry himself so straight; and for 
their parts, the gossips declared, they were not going to 
trouble their heads about him. Consequently Thomas Higgs 
and his affairs were never-failing subjects of discussion. 

Picture, then, the consternation, among all the good peo¬ 
ple when it was announced by “somebody who was there 
and ought to know,” that the post-boy had that very morn¬ 
ing handed Higgs a foreign-looking letter, and the man 
had “turned as white as the wall; rushed to his factory, 
talked a bit with one of the head workmen, and without 
bidding a creature good-bye, was off bag and baggage be¬ 
fore you could wink, ma’am.” Mistress Scrubbs, his land¬ 
lady, was in deep affliction. The dear soul became quite 
out of breath while speaking of him. “To leave lodgin’s in 



310 


Hans Brinker 


that suddent way, without never so much as a day’s warnin’ 
which was what every woman who didn’t wish to be trodden 
underfoot (which thank Hewing! wasn’t her way) had a 
perfect right to expect; yes, and a week’s warnin’ now you 
mention it, and without even so much as sayin’ ‘Many 
thanks to you, Mistress Scrubbs, for all past kindnesses,’ 
which was most numerous though she said it who shouldn’t 
say it, leastwise she wasn’t never no kind of a person to be 
lookin’ for thanks every minnit—It was really scanderlous, 
though to be sure Mister ’iggs paid up everythin’ to the last 
farthin’; and it fairly brought tears to her eyes to see his 
dear empty boots lyin’ there in the corner of his room, 
which alone showed trouble of mind for he always stood 
’em up straight as solgers, though bein’ half-soled twice 
they hadn’t of course been worth takin’ away.” 

Whereupon her dearest friend, Miss Scrumpkins, ran 
home to tell all about it. And, as everybody knew the 
Scrumpkinses, a shining gossamer of news was soon woven 
from one end of the street to the other. 

An investigating committee met that evening, at Mrs. 
Snigham’s—sitting, in secret session, over her best china. 
Though invited only to a quiet “tea,” the amount of judicial 
business they transacted on the occasion was prodigious. 
The biscuits were actually cold before the committee had 
a chance to eat anything. There was so much to talk over— 
and it was so important that it should be firmly established 
that each member had always been “certain sure that some¬ 
thing extraordinary would be happening to that man yet,” 
that it was near eight o’clock before Mrs. Snigham gave 
anybody a second cup. 




One snowy day in January, Laurens Boekman went with 
his father to pay his respects to the Brinker family. 

Raft was resting after the labors of the day; Gretel, hav¬ 
ing filled and lighted his pipe, was brushing every speck of 
ash from the hearth; the dame was spinning; and Hans, 
perched upon a stool by the window, was diligently study¬ 
ing his lessons—A peaceful, happy household whose main 
excitement during the past week had been the looking for¬ 
ward to this possible visit from Thomas Higgs. 

As soon as the grand presentation was over, Dame 
Brinker insisted upon giving her guests some hot tea; it 
was enough to freeze any one, she said, to be out in such 
crazy, blustering weather. While they were talking with 
her husband she whispered to Gretel that the young gentle¬ 
man’s eyes and her boy’s were certainly as much alike as 

311 




312 


Hans Brinker 


four beans, to say nothing of a way they both had of looking 
as if they were stupid and yet knew as much as a body’s 
grandfather. 

Gretel was disappointed. She had looked forward to a 
tragic scene, such as Annie Bouman had often described to 
her, from story books; and here was the gentleman who 
came so near being a murderer, who for ten years had been 
wandering over the face of the earth, who had believed him¬ 
self deserted and scorned by his father—the very young 
gentleman who had fled from his country in such magnifi¬ 
cent trouble, sitting by the fire just as pleasant and natural 
as could be! 

To be sure his voice had trembled when he talked with 
her parents, and he had met his father’s look with a bright 
kind of smile that would have suited a dragon-killer bring¬ 
ing the waters of perpetual youth to his king—but after all 
he wasn’t at all like the conquered hero in Annie’s book. 
He did not say, lifting his hand toward Heaven, “I hereby 
swear to be forever faithful to my home, my God and my 
country!” which would have been only right and proper 
under the circumstances. 

All things considered, Gretel was disappointed. Baft, 
however, was perfectly satisfied. The message was deliv¬ 
ered; Dr. Boekman had his son safe and sound; and the 
poor lad had done nothing sinful after all, except in think¬ 
ing his father would have abandoned him for an accident. 
To be sure, the graceful stripling had become rather a heavy 
man—Raff had unconsciously hoped to clasp that same boy¬ 
ish hand again—but all things were changed to Raff, for 
that matter. So he pushed back every feeling but joy, as 
he saw father and son sitting side by side at his hearth¬ 
stone. Meantime, Hans was wholly occupied in the thought 
of Thomas Higgs’ happiness in being able to be the mees- 
ter’s assistant again; and Dame Brinker was sighing softlv 
to herself, wishing that the lad’s mother were alive to see 



Broad Sunshine 


313 


him—such a fine young gentleman as he was; and wonder¬ 
ing how Dr. Boekman could bear to see the silver watch 
getting so dull. He had worn it ever since Raff handed 
it over, that was evident. What had he done with the gold 
one he used to wear ? 

The light was shining full upon Dr. Boekman’s face. 
How contented he looked; how much younger and brighter 
than formerly. The hard lines were quite melting away. 
He was laughing, as he said to the father: 

“Am I not a happy man, Raff Brinker? My son will 
sell out his factory this month, and open a warehouse in 
Amsterdam. I shall have all my spectacle-cases for 
nothing.” 

Hans started from his reverie. “ A warehouse, mynheer! 
and will Thomas Higgs—I mean—is your son not to be 
your assistant again?” 

A shade passed over the meester’s face, but he brightened 
with an effort, as he replied: 

“Oh no, Laurens has had quite enough of that. He 
wishes to be a merchant.” 

Hans appeared so surprised and disappointed that his 
friend asked good-naturedly: 

“Why so silent, boy? Is it any disgrace to be a mer¬ 
chant?” 

“N_ no t a disgrace, mynheer,” stammered Hans— 
“but-” 

“But what?” 

“Why the other calling is so much better,” answered 
Hans, “so much nobler. I think, mynheer,” he added, 
kindling with enthusiasm, “that to be a surgeon,—to cure 
the sick and crippled, to save human life, to be able to do 
what you have done for my father—is the grandest thing 
on earth.” 

The doctor was regarding him sternly. Hans felt 




314 


Hans Brinker 


rebuked. His cheeks were flushed; hot tears were gathering 
under his lashes. 

4 ‘It is an ugly business, boy, this surgery,” said the doc¬ 
tor, still frowning at Hans; “it requires great patience, 
self-denial and perseverance.” 

“I am sure it does,” cried Hans, kindling again. “It 
calls for wisdom too, and a reverence for God’s work. Ah, 
mynheer, it may have its trials and drawbacks—but you 
do not mean what you say—it is great and noble, not ugly! 
Pardon me, mynheer. It is not for me to speak so boldly.” 

Dr. Boekman was evidently displeased. He turned his 
back on the boy, and conferred aside with Laurens. Mean¬ 
while the dame scowled a terrible warning at Hans. These 
great people, she knew well enough, never like to hear poor 
folk speak up so pert. 

The meester turned around. 

“How old are you, Hans Brinker?” 

“Fifteen, mynheer,” was the startled reply. 

“Would you like to become a physician?” 

“Yes, mynheer,” answered Hans, quivering with excite¬ 
ment. 

“Would you be willing, with your parents’ consent, to 
devote yourself to study, to go to the University—and, in 
time, be a student in my office?” 

“YES, mynheer.” 

“You would not grow restless, think you, and change 
your mind just as I had set my heart upon preparing you 
to be my successor?” 

Hans’ eyes flashed. 

“No, mynheer, I would not change.” 

“You may believe him, there,” cried the dame, who could 
remain quiet no longer. “Hans is like a rock, when once 
he decides; and as for study, mynheer, the child has almost 
grown fast to his books of late. He can jumble off Latin 
already, like any priest!” 



Broad Sunshine 


315 


The doctor smiled. “Well, Hans, I see nothing to pre¬ 
vent us from carrying out this plan, if your father agrees.” 

“ Ahem,” said Raff, too proud of his boy to be very meek, 
“the fact is, mynheer, I prefer an active, out-of-door life, 
myself. But if the lad’s inclined to study for a meester, 
and he’d have the benefit of your good word to push him 
on in the world, it’s all one to me. The money’s all that’s 
wanting, but it mightn’t be long, with two strong pair of 
arms to earn it, before we-” 

“Tut! tut!” interrupted the doctor, “if I take your right 
hand man away, I must pay the cost, and glad enough will 
I be to do it. It will be like having two sons—eh, Laurens? 
One a merchant and the other a surgeon—I shall be the hap¬ 
piest man in Holland! Come to me in the morning, Hans, 
and we will arrange matters at once.” 

Hans bowed assent. He dared not trust himself to speak. 

“And, Brinker,” continued the doctor, “my son Laurens 
will need a trusty, ready man like you, when he opens his 
warehouse in Amsterdam; some one to overlook matters, 
and see that the lazy clowns round about the place do their 

duty. Some one to- Why don’t you tell him yourself, 

you rascal!” 

This last was addressed to the son, and did not sound half 
as fierce as it looks in print. The rascal and Raff soon 
understood each other perfectly. 

“I’m loath to leave the dykes,” said the latter, after they 
had talked together a while, “but you have made me such 
a good offer, mynheer, I’d be robbing my family if I let it 
go past me.” 

Take a long look at Hans as he sits there staring grate¬ 
fully at the meester, for you shall not see him again for 
many years. 

And Gretel—Ah, what a vista of puzzling work suddenly 
opens before her! Yes, for dear Hans’ sake she will study 






316 


Hans Brinker 


now. If he really is to be a meester, his sister must not 
shame his greatness. 

How faithfully those glancing eyes shall yet seek for the 
jewels that lie hidden in rocky school-books! And how they 
shall yet brighten and droop at the coming of one whom she 
knows of now, only as the boy who wore a red cap on that 
wonderful day when she found the Silver Skates in her 
apron! 

But the doctor and Laurens are going. Dame Brinker is 
making her best curtsey. Raff stands beside her, looking 
every inch a man as he grasps the meester’s hand. Through 
the open cottage door we can look out upon the level Dutch 
landscape all alive with the falling snow. 




Our story is nearly told. Time passes in Holland just as 
surely and steadily as here; in that respect no country is 

odd. 

To the Brinker family it has brought great changes. 
Hans has spent the years faithfully and profitably, conquer¬ 
ing obstacles as they arose, and pursuing one object with 
all the energy of his nature. If often the way has been 
rugged, his resolution has never failed. Sometimes he 
echoes, with his good old friend, the words said long ago 
in that little cottage near Broek: “ Surgery is an ugly 
business;” but always in his heart of hearts lingers the echo 
of those truer words, “It is great and noble! it awakes a 
reverence for God’s work!” 

Were you in Amsterdam to-day, you might see the 
famous Dr. Brinker riding in his grand coach to visit his 
patients; or, it might be, you would see him skating with 
his own boys and girls upon the frozen canal. For Annie 
Bouman, the beautiful, frank-hearted peasant girl, you 
would inquire in vain; but Annie Brinker, the vrouw of 
the great physician, is very like her—only, as Hans says, 
she is even lovelier, wiser, more like a fairy godmother than 
ever. 


317 















318 


Hans Drinker 


Peter van Holp, also, is a married man. I could have told 
you before, that he and Hilda would join hands and glide 
through life together, just as years ago, they skimmed side 
by side over the frozen, sunlit river. 

At one time, I came near hinting that Katrinka and .Carl 
would join hands. It is fortunate now that the report was 
not started, for Katrinka changed her mind, and is single 
to this day. The lady is not quite so merry as formerly, 
and, I grieve to say, some of the tinkling bells are out of 
tune. But she is the life of her social circle, still. I wish 
she would be in earnest, just for a little while, but no; it is 
not her nature. Her cares and sorrows do nothing more 
than disturb the tinkling; they never waken any deeper 
music. 

Rychie’s soul has been stirred to its depths during these 
long years. Her history would tell how seed carelessly 
sown is sometimes reaped in anguish, and how a golden 
harvest may follow a painful planting. If I mistake not, 
you may be able to read the written record before long; 
that is, if you are familiar with the Dutch language. In the 
witty, but earnest author whose words are welcomed at this 
day, in thousands of Holland homes, few could recognize 
the haughty, flippant Rychie who scoffed at little Gretel. 

Lambert van Mounen, and Ludwig van Holp, are good 
Christian men, and, what is more easily to be seen at a 
glance, thriving citizens. Both are dwellers in Amsterdam, 
but one clings to the old city of that name, and the other 
is a pilgrim to the new. Van Mounen’s present home is not 
far from the Central Park, and he says if the New Yorkers 
do their duty, the Park will, in time, equal his beautiful 
Bosch, near the Hague. He often thinks of the Katrinka of 
his boyhood, but he is glad now that Katrinka, the woman, 
sent him away; though it seemed at the time his darkest 
hour. Ben’s sister Jennie has made him very happy, hap- 



Conclusion 


319 


pier than he could have been with any one else in the wide 
world. 

Carl Schummel has had a hard life. His father met with 
reverses in business; and as Carl had not many warm 
friends, and above all, was not sustained by noble princi¬ 
ples, he has been tossed about by Fortune’s battledore until 
his gayest feathers are nearly all knocked off. He is a 
bookkeeper, in the thriving Amsterdam house of Boekman 
and Schimmelpenninck. Yoostenwalbert, the junior part¬ 
ner, treats him kindly; and he, in turn, is very respectful 
to the “monkey with a long name for a tail.” 

Of all our group of Holland friends, Jacob Poot is the 
only one who has passed away. Good-natured, true-hearted 
and unselfish to the last, he is mourned now, as heartily as 
he was loved and laughed at while on earth. He grew to be 
very thin before he died; thinner than Benjamin Dobbs, 
who is now portliest among the portly. 

Raff Brinker and his vrouw have been living comfortably 
in Amsterdam for many years—a faithful, happy pair; as 
simple and straightforward in their good fortune as they 
were patient and trustful in darker days. They have a 
zommerhuis near the old cottage and thither they often re¬ 
pair with their children and grandchildren on the pleasant 
summer afternoons when the pond-lilies rear their queenly 
heads above the water. 

The story of Hans Brinker would be but half told, if we 
did not leave him with Gretel standing near. Dear, quick, 
patient little Gretel! What is she now ? Ask old Dr. Boek¬ 
man, he will declare she is the finest singer, the loveliest 
woman in Amstrdam; ask Hans and Annie, they will assure 
you she is the dearest sister ever known; ask her husband, 
he will tell you she is the brightest, sweetest little wife in 
Holland; ask Dame Brinker and Raff, their eyes will glis¬ 
ten with joyous tears; ask the poor, the air will be filled 
with blessings. 



320 


Hans Brinker 


But, lest you forget a tiny form trembling and sobbing 
on the mound before Brinker cottage, ask the Van Glecks; 
they will never weary telling of the darling little girl who 
won The Silver Skates. 
















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